


The Goldfish

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-10-09 12:12:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 37,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10411887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: In [ S4 x ep1 ] First Blood, Vera mentions that she visited Joan in the psychiatric ward. “I did visit you. Months ago.” These words resonate. It strikes a chord within Joan. After everything, Vera makes up her mind to visit Joan. And she continues to visit, again and again. This is how it went. While there are some canon elements, most of this will be canon divergent.





	1. Grey Days

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I mean no offense in depicting mental illness, the use of medication, the criminal justice system, and malpractice. This piece is a work of fiction. Any depictions of the previously mentioned are just my interpretation of scenes from the show itself. This fic will have dark themes though it really is a "hurt/comfort" type of ordeal. "The Goldfish" flits between the murky grey area between seasons three and seasons four. Please be gentle, as this is one of my first multi-chaptered fics! I'll try to update it at my own pace when I feel most inspired. I hope you all enjoy it. :)

> “O, my Homunculus, I am ill. I have taken a pill to kill the thin, papery feeling.”
> 
> _Cut_ – Sylvia Plath

Wentworth's ashes contribute to the grey sky that allows for no sunshine to peak through the curtain; it's a limbo that matches the stasis that Joan Ferguson finds herself in. Far removed from her former glory, she wears the tattered remains of her uniform. Blood stains the white button-down blouse: a mix of Jess Warner's and her own.

Her mane, once combed to a sheen, is now a matted mess, silver prominent against the black background. The dust from the correctional facility clings to her thighs and her trousers in the most stubborn fashion. Recently admitted, the ward's staff hasn't even bothered to clean her up.

It's dirty, it's filthy, it's downright unsanitary, but her mind's in another place.

Her arms are bound, crucified for being seen as too large, too dominant, too different. She did not fit into the role of submissive woman. Joan never would. Nor did she care to. Already vilified, they all refused to see her side of the story – to understand that some sins are necessary. From a functionalist's perspective, she sought to justify her actions until the bitter end. Now, she tilts her head and stares ahead at the barren walls that remind her of her apartment: _empty_.

The fox finds herself in the hole again though this is not the hole she governs. The allegory of the farmer chasing the fox away from the hens is all too real. Her wrists sting, as though to sing about the police brutally slapping the cuffs onto her wrists and shoving her into the car. How the women screamed. How Vera stared.

This padded, white cell promises sterility. Burns, wounds, and cuts will heal. The affliction of the heart will not.

Her cheeks hollow, her eyes dark and unreadable though the dilation of her pupils suggest that there's a chemical flowing through her veins, altering her brainwaves.

She's swimming in a haze. Images come and go. Faces fade. Memories distort themselves. There is no control here, only a frightening regression that does not reveal a dangerous woman, but a wounded one.

The longer she squints and stares, the more the walls resemble a cartoonish tomb that reduce to the archetype of the madwoman who has misplaced her head, of the psychopath that has burned all the bridges, of the sycophant who has twisted trust into something undefinable. None of these things suit her, but people love to play the jury and demand a sentence.

“I warned you this would happen, Joan. You fell onto your back, your soft underbelly exposed to the enemy,” Ivan murmurs.

His disappointment boils underneath her skin.

“Why, why, _why_ ,” Jodi Spiteri chants her mantra in a stutter, her injured eye as red as Joan's fresh burns.

Numb from the inexplicable shock, her mind takes her back to the start where it's safer, cleaner, and more comfortable. She imagines the days where she wore pleated skirts with modest stocks. She remembers the days where her first love rested her weary head upon her lap. Even further back, she recalls the days of sweet girlhood where her mother used to sing to her. Then, the singing stopped. Faintly, she recalls the song: Irving Berlin's “Russian Lullaby.”

During those simpler times, Jianna begged for her to sing. To remind Riley that there was a world outside even though this cruel system failed her. During those softer days, Jianna offered Shane to Joan despite Joan's initial refusal. Still, she accepted the gurgling tyke as carefully as she could. The same lullaby her mother used to sing to her, she now hummed to little Shane even though she was well aware that she could not sing (her father told you so). Now, she's humming that same tune in the cell that's a garish caricature of restricted freedom.

_There's a lonely Russian rose, gazing tenderly, down upon her knee._

Why, it's almost as if she can hear Shane's soft gurgling and cooing. Ivan always told her that motherhood would never suit her. Her arms cradle an imaginary weight. The voice of Ivan Ferguson becomes a distant murmur thanks to the papers they seal her fate and the pills that sailed down her throat. Her wrists compensate to accompany the music that plays within her head.

A serene smile curls onto her glossy lips.

To be a prisoner of your own mind is hell itself. At least, with a simple song, she can control what was once lost.

To the outsider looking in, this must be a display of pain, watching a woman trapped within her fiery blanket of suffering.

This wasn't Joan.

A hollow replica, perhaps.

But it wasn't Joan.

 


	2. We Hit A Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vera's made up her mind.
> 
> The reconstruction of Wentworth is as necessary as her confrontation with Joan. She needs to get over it, but can she?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how many chapters this fic will span... But where it takes me, it takes me. Also, I apologize about the pace. I always ease into my introductions; this one just happens to be two chapters long haha.

> “There is no body in this house at all.”
> 
> _The Detective_ – Slyvia Plath

Vera's made up her mind.

The reconstruction of Wentworth is as necessary as her confrontation with Joan. She needs to get over it, but can she?

By the time she finds visitor parking at the facility, her car's engine dies down to a faint purr. She hesitates. A part of her, fueled by anger and betrayal, wants to switch the gear into reverse and peel out of the parking lot. The soft, impressionable part of Vera refuses to leave. Trembling fingers pluck the power band that's hugging her wrist. She pinches the elastic once, twice. It empowers her.

With a deep breath, she switches off the latest one hit wonder to grace the radio. Her keys seek solace in her pocket, falling to the bottom, snug against her wallet.

She lifts her head, suddenly feeling small. The hospital seems taller than Wentworth, but it's just another prison.

Once inside, she rides the elevator towards the designated ward. It's a breach in her code of conduct and even more ill advised to show up unannounced. Joan doesn't like surprises. That much, Governor Bennett can recall.

The movies don't – **can't** – compare to the actuality of being inside the ward. In the distance, there's the muted wailing of just another grievance. Incomprehensible babbling. A scream that transforms into a sob. Vera inhales and tastes the stale air. Her eyes search for the one in charge. All she manages to find is a blonde in a uniform.

The nurse looks up from her desk. ' Atwood ' is what the badge says. A wad of gum rolls to the left side of her mouth. It reminds Vera of a chipmunk storing away seeds. Bemused, she stares at the young woman with a face full of makeup, fresh out of school and full of apathy.

“Can I help you?”

Already, the girl rolls her eyes as though mere existence is a waste of time. It grates on Vera's nerves. Common human decency is dead these days.

“I'd like to see Joan Ferguson.”

An irritated sigh.

“Did you make an appointment?”

She falters.

“I-- what? Oh, no. Do I have to?”

Therein lies a glimpse of the old Vera caught in the throes of uncertainty.

“It would help,” Atwood retorts cooly.

“Can I have a moment?” Vera asks without awaiting the nurse's response. She pivots on heel, her hands twitching.

Initially, she expected the scenario to go over smoothly. She would roll in. She would confront Joan. She would be angry and righteous in her anger. Then, she would leave. Yet, it went beyond that. Well aware of the fact that Joan had no living relatives, Vera knows that not a single soul will dare to visit her in her time here. For a brief moment, the bond they shared had been a profoundly deep one.

Biting her lip, she reaches for her phone and makes a call. In all her uncertainty, without a mentor, Vera asks for advice. She calls Dr. Westfall who remains neutral in her tone, but Vera can detect the concern underneath the layers. Bridget warns her. Advises for her not to go through with this. Defeated by the uselessness of the call, she pays her adieu and hangs up.

Vera turns her attention to Nurse Atwood who flicks through the daily news despite not paying attention to any of the headlines.

“Can I ring her, at least?”

“Well, you're already here. You can see her, she hasn't had any company. Next time, schedule an appointment. Most patients dislike surprise visits.”

“--Right. Erm, sorry.”

And just like that, the metaphorical gates open. She signs her name on a line accompanied by a date and time. Then, Nurse Atwood informs her of which wing to head towards. A left, a left, and a right turn.

There, at a round table, is Joan Ferguson. She's cleaned up since last time. A brown shawl covers her broad shoulders, clashing with a white skirt and a pair of slippers. Her hair shrouds her face, shielding the glossy-eyed stare that seems all too vacant. Her hands rest in her lap as heavy, guilty weights. The sight of Joan tugs at Vera's chest. Twists her heart into unspeakable knots.

Her confrontation falls short. She no longer feels the compelling urge to call Ferguson out. To shout aloud ' you used me. ' The words no longer come.

She closes her bright, blue eyes that carry a hint of tears. After all the time that has transcended, Vera thinks about the moment she first started her career in corrections. Her mantra is and always has been a simple one: _I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to be someone. I wanted to matter._

Now, she questions what she stands for.

Approaching Joan is akin to walking on shards of shattered glass. There's no thin ice to separate them. She treads carefully towards the woman who had awoken **something** in her. That something, she could not say.

It's painful seeing Joan like this. Her hand flies to her mouth while she's searching Joan's face for a reaction, for her lips to move and to usher forth some witty remark. There's _nothing_.

With a far off look in her eye, Joan's crimes hang heavy in the air and Vera finds herself choking on them.

Suddenly, Vera feels as trapped as Joan must be in every sense of the word. Nimble fingers grace her redenned cheeks, her blunt nails lightly brushing peach fuzz. She misses the woman with the razor sharp voice who had a permanent plan of action. She longs for the woman who held her head high and marched with purpose while Vera struggled to keep up. She aches for the woman who opened her up like a gift, but left her empty. She has to remind herself that Ferguson is a victim to the system.

“Joan,” she begins as soft as can be. “It's me. Vera.”

She reaches out and stops herself, recalling Joan's distaste towards touch unless she initiated it. Now, she considers herself damaged goods. The Hep C might as well brand itself across her forehead. Closing her eyes, she kneels beside this woman whose gaze focuses on the dust-clad table. Despondent would be the word Vera's trying so hard to search for.

No response.

Vera is no doctor. She merely pities Joan. Pities Joan for the circumstances and the festering wound she left behind. She wishes that Joan had cared for her afer the riot. After the needle grazed her neck and she bled. And that tainted blood fused with her own. It had been a fantasy she entertained, alone, into her tear-stained pillow.

“This shouldn't have happened. I promise you that I'll return.”

She stands and pulls herself together again, but the wobbling of her knees gives it all away. The muscles in her calves spasm. Vera kisses her own knuckles, tasting the salt from her skin. Joan is a husk, lifeless and empty. If only the system could repair her, fix whatever wrongness manifests itself.

And that is how Vera says good bye.

One last, lingering glance is tossed over her right shoulder.

It's not revenge.

It's the beginning.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the nurse, I don't mean to put that profession in a bad light or to stereotype! This is an original character that will be featured in quite a few chapters. You're not meant to like her! She's young, a millennial, and a sort of social commentary in the making.


	3. Our Work Was Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vera struggles to fill Joan's shoes while reflecting on the first visit. Turmoil transpires at Wentworth Bridget's warning looms within the back of the Governor's head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of Joan. Alas, Bridget is a necessary part of the chapter to help get the ball rolling. I've been dying to address Bridget's diagnosis and how that turned into a rampant plot device for Vera to believe in. I don't necessarily agree with it as well as many other parts of the show, but that's what fics are for! Really, there are too many litigating factors. We know Joan is unwell. Yet, Bridget seems to keen on a label when the psychiatrist should seek to help, not hinder. I'm also sorry that I wrote this chapter while half asleep after work.

> “Lying on the sofa with my eyes closed, I didn't want to see it this way, everything eating everything in the end.”
> 
> _Dirty Valentine_ – Richard Siken

 

Outside, the women congregate on the field. They form their cliques and herds, the burning sun hardening their features furthermore. From the comfort of her office, Vera watches them. Kaz Proctor stands in the middle like some sort of pariah, gesturing with her hands to the hungry crowd. It wouldn't surprise her that the Red Right Hand is silently scheming. Twelve years makes a world of difference. Vera doesn't want to find out how that ceremonial speech goes. If Ferguson were here, she wouldn't tolerate the defiance.

But she's not Joan.

Joan, who's currently locked up in psych, her once sharp eyes as glassy as can be. Vera's stomach sinks. Feeling ill, she acknowledges that she cannot afford to take the day off as Wentworth's acting governor. The job, it seems, is bound to chew up and spit out anyone who dares to wear the crowns.

_Is this what happens to every ambitious woman on the market?_

Women, like Joan, who reached the top through unconventional means with her lunges, flunges, and a passata sotto. In the thankless realm of corrections, she built a name for herself. She didn't need to be liked; she simply needed to get the job done. Vera had always admired that quality about her.

Governor Bennett's knuckles scrape underneath her chin. Her teeth dig into the dead skin around her nails. It's a nervous habit she adopted years ago. At times of great stress, it rears its ugly head. Again, she is faced with the challenge of budget cuts. To run a prison well means to cut the fountain of wealth where it hurts the least financially, but has the woman suffer worse. Vera doesn't want the outcome to be that. So, she delays.

A knock at the door ropes Vera back into reality.

“Come in,” she says.

Dr. Westfall strolls in. Her gait is a flowing stride that matches the turquoise blouse she wears, full of silk that cascades down in rivulets. As of late, Bridget has become a bit of a confidant. Vera places her trust in this self-assertive woman who genuinely cares for the inmates. These days, it's important to have empathy. So few have it.

“Do you have a moment, Governor?”

Bridget stands tall, her arms lax by her sides, silver bangles jingling.

Vera can't fathom how Westfall manages to remain so composed, an elegance to her every move, but it doesn't and never will compare to Joan's tact that came so naturally. She shakes her head, her frown deepening. The lines on her forehead seem to multiply.

“If the matter's pressing, please continue, Dr. Westfall.”

Her lips form a shaky smile. Rather than being trapped inside this office, Vera would much prefer a quiet place. Say, her home. Then, this conversation could resume over a bottle of pinot. It's this wishful thinking that manages to soothe her.

“Frankly, I'm concerned for your well-being. I advised you against visiting Ferguson. Psychopaths make the world their stage; they lie in order to meet their needs. She's a textbook case.”

Somehow, she makes the situation clinical. She mentions the Hare Psychopathy Checklist and recites criteria from the DSM that doesn't match. Had Vera known better, she would dismiss Bridget's diagnosis completely. All these terms confuse Vera. Perhaps Rita was right; perhaps she is a simple, stupid girl who wanted to help, but screwed everything up.

By the time Bridget comes to a stand still, Vera's temple throbs. She sees the concern in the blonde's eyes; she can't address it. Instead, she thinks of Joan in that awful place with that young nurse who wouldn't give two shits about who lives or who dies.

“You weren't there. They don't treat her right. I can tell. I have to do **something** ,” she replies and it almost sounds like she's trying to convince herself rather than Bridget.

“Have you ever stopped to consider that you've fallen straight into her clutches?”

The blonde gives the softest of sighs.

“Please, Vera. I'm speaking to you not as a colleague, but a friend. Joan Ferguson is _dangerous_.”

Vera struggles to keep herself together. The only thing intact seems to be her now immaculate bun pulled back into a tight knot.

“I-- I understand that. She validated me once. She reached out to me when no one else did. I'm reciprocating. That's all it is, Bridget.”

None of this comes easy for her.

“Listen to yourself, Vera. You sound like a victim.”

Bridget steps forward, her brows knitted together in a mask that has the audacity to say “you poor thing.”

“This can't end well,” Bridget continues.

Unable to stand it any further, Vera snaps. She bends under pressure. There's venom in her voice that sounds so unlike her, a steel that scratches at her vocal chords.

“How is what you have with Doyle any different?”

Dr. Westfall's smile tightens.

The psychiatrist enters her personal space, breaching the gap between them. She hovers over the desk that collects folders, files, and despair. Bridget touches her wrist. It's light, consoling, meant to be amicable. In the end, it feels acidic.

Vera jerks away.

“Damaged people are the most destructive, Vera.”

Bridget whispers softly before relenting, still watching the brunette with that look of pity. She steps away, her hand mid-air until it falls completely.

She manages to find her voice again, ashamed of her self-induced isolation. It's a coping mechanism that dates back to fake lovers and childish fantasies. She doesn't want Dr. Westfall to be here. She doesn't want to hear anymore.

“--I've heard enough. You can go now.”

After Bridget pardons herself, the door clicks shut. The band around her wrist seems to tighten though it's just a hallucination – an imaginary shackle Vera places upon herself. Her shoulders shudder. A horrible tension manifests itself within her back, fixed to her delicate spine. She's lost. For the entirety of Vera's meager existence, she's been a pawn. A doll. A thing.

As briefly as it was and as quickly as it ended, Joan made her feel like none of these things. Deep down, there's a flicker of self-doubt. She wonders if Bridget is pining for a new case study since the woman's so eager to find a storybook villian in the most clinical way. Worn out from the exchange, Vera rubs her face.

(This can't – **won't** – end well.)

Against Bridget's judgment, she'll visit Joan tomorrow.

Sea blue eyes flick back to the CCTV.

The women are angry.

They always are.

It's all they have.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there will be more Joan in the next chapter, my friends.


	4. House of Metal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On her second visit, Vera meets Joan's doctor in passing. Something nags at her. As always, the stress is too much. She can only afford to see Joan in small doses. Like a drug, she comes back for more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, allow me to say thank you for all of your comments! I'm sorry I've fallen behind in responding to them. I've seen a few of you have some interesting discussions about the aforementioned topics. It definitely helps the muse. You all inspire me. Thanks so much for taking the time to read this. xx

> “I saw mirrored, besides my own self and the world, something else, something else, something else.”
> 
> _Fame_ – Vladimir Nabokov

_Hurt people hurt people._

That's what she gathered from her meeting with Bridget. _Like a nursery rhyme,_ Vera muses to herself. The two words thunder inside her skull, louder than a drum. Riddled with self-doubt, Wentworth's most recent governor regrets her outburst. While she shouldn't have lashed out at Dr. Westfall, Vera knew it to be true in her heart.

Rita had been right; her compassion would be the end of her.

Before visiting Joan, she opts to change out of uniform. Civi clothing offers a small comfort. The suit she wears is an act of bondage, keeping her in a vise-like hold of permanent stress. A coral sweater with gray slacks and a silver necklace make her feel normal. It's nothing special. The scar on her neck stands out, slight yet angry. Shivering from the memory, she squeezes her eyes shut. Some things never go away.

A white-hot panic causes her heart to skip a beat. She recalls the masked assailants, their grubby hands wrenching back her wrists, the needle grazing the protruding vein. Her pupils dilate. She sees herself in the rearview mirror, her anxiety and fears magnified.

Inhale, exhale. Breathe slowly. Just breathe.

Calm now.

It's time to see the Devil.

Alone, the phrase playing into the archetype that Westfall's diagnosis has become. That same diagnosis Vera blindly believed would be the cure to this ailment. Even as a girl, Vera had been a follower, not a leader. Thanks to resilience, she refuses to be the lemming taking the plunge off the cliff. For Wentworth to be a successful correctional facility, she must overcome her fears.

_No, Vera. Not the Devil. It's time to see Ferguson._

The walk to the ward is a lonely one that's far worse than prison. No amount of bleach can mask the foul stench of body odor combined with shit and piss. Somewhere, a woman sobs. These concrete walls hold another hostage. The forlorn weeping reminds Vera of her mother, shrieking in agony, demanding gratification. Goosebumps prick her flesh. The hair on the nape of her neck rises. She grits her teeth.

Nurse Atwood stands behind a film of glass meant to protect herself alongside the expanse of medication that lines the shelves. It makes over-drugging the patients all the easier. Vera wiggles her nose, catching the scent of bubblegum wafting from this wilting Lolita condemned to care less in her twenties than she ever did as a hopeful child.

In her irritation, she glances past Atwood to the table where Joan sits ever so patiently. A man's beside her. He moves in the way that an apex predator would. Feigned concern laces his tone. She doesn't hear much else, but an incoherent murmur. Radio static. White noise.

She doesn't like the look of the man. His baldness, his rat-like face, his beady eyes. He's a greasy one.

The doctor's back is turned to her. He sees the way he bends and invades Joan's personal space. Ferguson does nothing to resist. It's unusual. It's not like Joan, Vera knows. The old Joan would knock him from his pedestal. Make him stagger back from some whitty remark. It's the meds serve as a barricade, Vera realizes, and the revelation makes her sadder.

“Who is that?” Vera asks, turning to the nurse.

Atwood's eyes seem tired, as though she's seen too much in too little time. For once, Vera relates to the woman.

“Oh, that's the resident doctor. He's good at what he does.”

She scoffs at the remark and watches him leave. It makes Vera feel dirty.

With her nerves steeled, Vera persists. Joan's vision flit down to her hands, her hair a dark halo. With a deep, even breath, Vera approaches the tall women now

“I promised I would come back,” she says.

Under duress, her shoulders have the habit of stiffening. They shoot up, lingering beneath her earlobes. Her spine feels the brunt of it. The pain is nothing. Vera has endured far worse. rendered as an ice statue upon her metal throne.

“Can you hear me, Joan?”

No response.

The blinding sun causes Joan to squint. Bright light licks half her face, toying with the notion of chiaroscuro. Fine lines crack that pale skin. Vera moves to shut the blinds.

“That better?”

A dissonant ' _yes_. ' A vacant nod.

At least it's **something**.

She crouches beside Joan, tucking her knees beneath herself. In a quiet sort of reverence, Vera looks up at the woman she once idolized. Now, she isn't sure what she feels.

“Seeing you outside of work... this wasn't what I wanted.”

An unsure hand spiderwebs above Joan's that lingering, but refuses to make contact. Remembering the dinner, remembering when it all fell apart.

_You thought I was disease. What do you think know?_

Despite the painful thought, she doesn't look away. She focuses on Joan's face and its startling vacancy. It hurts. It really fucking hurts. None of this feels like retribution.

“You were better at it,” Vera confesses in a hushed voice.

At the governorship? At scare tactics? At manipulation?

_At, well, everything._

The rest doesn't come out. On her own volition, Joan seems to change the topic. Perhaps she thinks Vera a nurse. Perhaps she figures Vera to be another patient. Or perhaps her self-awareness is shot thanks to whatever the doctor's prescribed. Instead, a question comes forth, as sharp as a rapier sailing through the air, cutting the high tension.

“Where is my father?”

Vera opens and closes her mouth. Works her brows together.

“--I wish I knew.”

From her recollection, Ivan Ferguson is a dead man.

This will go nowhere. Not yet, not now.

Rubbing her tired eyes, Vera slowly stands. She misses the woman she used to know. She hopes to see her soon. Her fingers move to brush Joan's shoulder, but she stops and offers a strained smile.

“Next visit, I'll bring you a book. I can, erm, read it to you. If you'd like.”

She realizes how silly she sounds. Joan isn't a child. She's a grown woman. Vera twists her hands in her lap. She wonders, briefly, if this is how it would have been to take care of her mother still. It could be worse. In some regard, it _is_ worse.

And that's how she leaves her. It's pointless to issue a good bye when she'll be back tomorrow. Instead, she focuses her grief and anger elsewhere. Hones it on a woman who represents the system. Very nearly hissing, Vera approaches the desk. Her speech comes out like rapid gunfire, aimed at the target that is Nurse Atwood.

“What meds do you have her on? It's like she's not even human anymore. What have you done to her? You can't just tranquilize someone, because they didn't listen. You can't-- You just _can't_.”

“I'm sorry,” Atwood mumbles an automated response, her gaze flicking down to the visitor sign-in. “--Miss Bennett, but you're not her family. I'm not liable to tell you that information.”

Vera winces.

And it sounds pathetic, but she says it anyway.

“Joan Ferguson has the basic human right to her fucking dignity.”

Storming out, she fights back the stubborn tears that start in the corner of her eyes. She could never stop the crying be it from sorrow, stress, grief, or rage.

Her mind goes on auto-pilot. A quiet home greets her. She stands in the door frame, studying the hideous wallpaper that's begun to peel. While the lack of Rita's screaming brings a sort of tranquility to the house, it still feels so empty. She imagine checking Ferguson out of the hospital and bringing here in a near catatonic state.

_Don't be stupid._

She can't stand to be here long. Vera grabs her keys from the table and drives. She drives until she stops at a pet shop. There, she buys a glass bowl, flakes, a castle, and the fish itself. A brilliantly colored goldfish that she names Frances.

It helps.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems I have One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest stuck in my head. Brilliant novel and great film for inspo. I'm a cruel torturer with the slow burn vibes, I know. I hope in the very least that the reader asks themselves this, "Is Joan faking this?" I promise you that you'll see a glimpse of the old Joan in due time. I'm an avid fan of symbolism, metaphors, and juxtaposition; I hope the prose isn't too much for you all!


	5. Halfsleeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As though it's contraband, the novel's tucked under the crook of Vera's arm. There, it collects her body heat and seems to procure its own pulse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that quite a bit of this may seem Vera-centric as we're often placed within her thoughts, emotions, and what have you. However, that will change soon enough. This fic is sort of a grey area between the more impressionable Vera we knew in earlier seasons leading into her hardened self in later seasons, I suppose. On another note, Joan's doctor will not be making a comeback in the fic; he was necessary to address and for Vera to see him, but I'll leave it at that.

> “You are a fever I'm trying to live with.”
> 
> _Straw House, Straw Dog_ – Richard Siken

Plaster from the ceiling falls victim to age, cracking and crumbling. Little, white flakes flutter and imitate a moth's wings. These inanimate fragments are caught in a haphazard dance. Joan catches sight of the disturbance. At the mere thought of a mess, her right eye twitches. Yet, there is a sort of dissonance to the motion. Her body feels detached from her mind courtesy of the anti-psychotics and mood stabilizers prescribed by the doctor who claims to know best.

It's a means of social control through questionable ethics. In the ward, there is a total disregard towards proper medication dispersion. Perhaps this complete abuse of the system boils down to a matter of karma.

From the corner of her bloodshot eyes, Joan spies Simone Slater's silhouette. Granted, it would be illogical to believe in karma. Even more illogical to believe that Simone is here with her. Despite her current condition, she continues to have faith in results. In the end, this suffering will mean something: an exit, a tuned mind, a stronger Joan.

The daily cocktail induces a surreal haze. Sense of self is buried underneath layers of dizziness a film that makes you question reality itself. A lethargy makes her limbs feel akin to dead weight. These days, her mouth often runs dry. She seems only incapable of asking for water in a voice that doesn't sound her own. By default, the medication makes her apathetic. Renders her incapable of picking up the chipped paint that scatters across the tiled floor. Idly, Joan remembers a childhood tale.

_The sky is falling._

“Hah,” she says aloud.

“Something funny?” Nurse Atwood asks, disrupting the memory that might have never been. She dog-ears her Cosmo magazine, full of useless advice and product placement.

Joan ignores the rhetoric, having no patience for it. She only chooses to respond to that which is worth her time. Again, her eye twitches. Her nostrils flare. Her mind goes back to what is safe, warm, and comfortable. Her defense mechanisms bring her to Jianna. Jianna with her soft smile. Jianna with her coarse curls that always smelled clean. Jianna with her gurgling infant. Jianna who promised hope with a warm look.

“Where is my Jianna?” Her throat's scratchy, as though cotton's been lodged there. The words crack and it's as though she's a third party, listening from afar.

“No Jianna has ever come to visit you. Only that Bennett woman. She's... _something,_ ” Atwood replies; she clucks her tongue. A hen in the coop.

“Ah.”

Such a sad, hollow sound.

Even the realization that her beloved Jianna has been gone for years seems distant, as if it's a confession made by another person, pre-recorded and exposed as case evidence. Uncomfortable by the vulnerability, Joan shifts in her seat. She tries to get a grip on herself, but it's difficult. Difficult in this room full of people that do not and cannot understand Joan Ferguson.

_Think. Focus, Joan.You must step into the ring. You must conquer-- You must--_

This is not a fencing match.

It's an unfair trial.

Her long fingers slide down the side of her face.

On cue, Vera appears. As though it's contraband, the novel's tucked under the crook of Vera's arm. There, it collects her bodyheat and seems to procure its own pulse. Never much of a reader, Vera sought advice in the shop where a tall woman poked and prodded her until she found a suitable recommendation. How useless she had felt in that place, arms swinging by her sides, gawking at the bountiful shelves. Vera much preferred to flip through magazines with their thin, laminated, colorful pages. It's mindless entertainment. With a good book, you have to think and Vera's never been much of an intellectual.

Joan, however, is and it's important to keep her mind well-tuned.

“I thought you might like this,” Vera chips in to interrupt the silence and Joan's resumed catatonic state.

Triumphant, she holds out _The Bell Jar,_ her actions reminiscent of a student trying to impress her teacher with quintessential literary masterpieces. The cover depicts a woman's legs, the hem of a skirt, and heels. There's a vintage film plastered over the image, a grain that strains the eyes.

“I didn't know if I should bring you poetry or a novel.”

A sheepish smile strengthens the parenthesis that frame Vera's pretty, pink mouth. She sits beside the woman she no longer recognizes. How it reminds her of her mother sans the crying for relief. Vera fights the urge to squeeze Joan's hand, flipping through the the used book with its worn spine.

Vera starts where it's most appropriate: at the beginning.

“It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York.”

She speaks softly, gently.

At the table beside Joan, her body plays a game where each vein and capillary is compiled of electric wires. Her knee threatens to touch Joan's, but she always – _always_ – stops herself, her entire life marked by hesitation.

Her thumb catches the edge of the page that curls beneath her steadily applied force. Vera's looking at her with sad, pitiful eyes. Joan turns her head away.

_You sad, sad mouse; why are you here?_

She reads for hours until her throat's achingly parched and her mouth runs dry.

“--It was comfortable to know that I had fallen and could fall no further.”

Here with Joan, time seems to be an imagined thing. The stress of the prison is set aside on the back burner. A part of her feels happy, content; the other part: completely and utterly lost without Joan's guidance. That type of confliction tends to be dangerous.

The more she reads, the more she is unable to stop. A stone settles in her gut, tossing and turning. In a way, the novel mirrors a life that Joan now leads. A story is quite like the eye of the storm; the reader's caught in the middle of it all. It makes Vera contemplate her place here. If it's right. If any of this is.

Maybe it's the wrong book to bring all along.

“I'm sorry.”

Vera apologizes, because it feels like the right thing to do. Abruptly, she stands. Prepares to excuse herself, having overstayed her welcome.

“--Right. I'll be off now.”

“Leave it,” Joan commands.

Her voice sounds hoarse from disuse. A glimpse of her old self. It instills Vera with a glimmer of hope.

She leaves it on the table for Joan to leaf through the pages when she leaves. Vera's perfume clings to the paper, but for how long?

Home alone, Vera likes to entertain the notion of what could have been. She imagines fine dining and laughter-filled nights. She envisions a touch on the hand, the shoulder, a kiss – no, too far. Much too far. She should still be angry with Joan. Sometimes, she is. That bitterness manifests itself into something ugly. Makes her out to be Rita's daughter in every sense of the word. She drags her hand across the mattress; it's a lonesome habit.

Alone, in her queen-sized bed – a recent upgrade – she reads _poetry_ , of all things, and sniffles.

Joan's rubbed off on her, infected her, molded her. A silent tears beads in the corner of her tired, blue eyes. Her feet curl beneath her bottom, the sheet covering her knees like a falling curtain. With a sigh, she wraps her arms around her plush pillow and squeezes it tight.

_Stupid, silly Vera._

Everything seems unfixable.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small hint: Each chapter is named after a song all by the same artist. 
> 
> Oh, dear. I haven't read The Bell Jar since high school, but it was a beautiful book. I couldn't remember the exact page number of the second quote so let's just presume Vera's a fast reader or she's been there for quite some time! I love creating plotholes haha.


	6. Advice & Vices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stress of the job changes the make of the person. Vera experiences pressure from all fronts while Joan's left alone in the hospital. Isolation, reflections. What does it all mean?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delays. Real life's been a royal pain between work and all else. This chapter is a bit of a filler. Hopefully, I can crank out two chapters tonight.

> “I'm battling monsters / I'm pulling you out of the burning buildings / and you say, 'I'll give you anything ' / but you never come through.”
> 
> – Richard Siken, _Crush_

Vera Bennett's most recent absence breaks the routine that she has reintegrated into Joan's life. Day one passes in vacant apathy. Joan's dark eyes focus on the great, big window of the ward. Its thick glass traps the radiant sun, but it doesn't burn her hesitant fingertips. She's not Icarus, her wings aren't aflame, though they had been at Wentworth.

The fiery crash of her career ignites a spark in her mind. She flinches, her jaw tight, her hair streaming down her shoulders as untamed as ever before. In this moment, there is a wildness to her. Some primative, monstrous thing that she is forced to control despite the fog she finds herself in.

Joan furrows her brow.

The shawl around her broad shoulders falls limp, akin to a queen's robes that have frayed and become a beggar's dress. In an attempt to gain composure, she closes her eyes. She recalls a distant memory of a ragged dog with a limp, wagging tail. As a young girl, she fed scraps to a stray. She named him Arman. At night, they played games of fetch. While dutiful to scrub her hands at the end of the game, the dog showed her a tenderness that no living being dared to. Arman reminded her to be a child rather than a toy soldier: a mirror image of the man whose shadow she lived in. She never knew what became of him. She never asked her father though the yelp in the night foretold a great deal.

Her nostrils flare. Gradually, her lashes flutter. She stands in front of that window, statuesque. Joan imagines smashing the glass of the window. Imagines flying high in search of Jianna, her angel. In search of her mother, a ghost whose name she no longer remembers.

_Pull yourself together, Joan. Think, think, think. Remember why you are here._

Ivan is not there to remind her of her faults, of her mistakes. His booming voice – that has the habit of filling vacant spaces and make them suffocating – is simply not there. At least the thickness of his accent reminded her that she was not a lone soldier on the front. Yet, this does not bring her any peace. She grits her teeth. They threaten to turn to dust.

Everyone leaves: her father, Jianna, and now Vera.

The revelation leaves her numb.

On the second day without Vera, Joan reads _The Bell Jar_ from start to finish. Vera had been kind enough to leave the book behind. A thoughtful gift. With a scoff, Joan wonders if the mouse of a woman picked it out on her own or with some assistance.

Creases form in the spine, fine wrinkles that season with age. She can smell Vera's floral perfume clinging to the pages. Her lips part. She curls her fingers into the final pages that bend beneath her iron grip. She inhales, feeling hollow. Feeling something when she ought to feel nothing at all.

Back at Wentworth, Governor Bennett's tired eyes flit to the telephone. Channing had eased the blows with vapid humor, but it's more manipulation and Vera finds herself bending to accommodate. Prison reform is a business when in the beginning, she believed it was a way to heal.

The palm of her hand cradles her cheek laden with peach fuzz. Her pinky covers her mouth. Vera sits in the Governor's chair, smoothing out her pants. It feels libertating to be rid of the skirt. Sighing, she rubs her thighs, taut muscle trapped beneath cotton.

At precisely three o'clock, Dr. Westfall lets herself in. They agreed to a meeting in order to discuss inmate Jenkins violent tendencies. In actuality, Vera believed Jenkins – or ' Boomer ' as she's called – to be quite harmless. Bridget carries the conversation, as she tends to do when she walks into the room. Vera finds herself listening though her mind's on auto-pilot, lingering on Joan. What she must be doing in that sad, sad place...

_No, I should be angry WITH her._

“Vera, this is dangerous. You face the risk of forming a codependence. Those types of bonds are simply not healthy. You're adding burden to an already stressful job.”

Finally, the psychiatrist ropes her back into reality. Funny how words can be a cold slap in the face.

_Risk._

Like it's a **disease**.

Vera jolts up in her seat. Her nails drag across the arms of her chair as she stands up. She smiles though it doesn't match how she feels when she walks Bridget out.

_It's not what you think._

“--Thank you for your input. I've made a note of Jenkins' behavior.”

A tight feeling knots in her chest. She can't breath. Or maybe, maybe, she chooses not to. Vera stalks the halls, suddenly aware of how slight she is compared to the cells. The women. The job.

On the way back to Cell Block H, Red has a storm on her mind. Her hair reflects her mood: tumultous. She throws her hands up, a pariah in the making. Vera watches the gesture, her brows working together. Tiny creases scrunch up her forehead.

“What? You think turning a prison into a resort will change the truth of the matter?”

Bea's hands are up. She's laughing without a trace of humor.

“I am trying to make Wentworth a better place, Smith. What I require is your _cooperation_.”

Bennett stresses on her syllables. Clicking her teeth, clicking her tongue. She thinks about how easy it would be to slot Bea. To silence her outrage. Her grief. But it's not fair. None of this is.

She misses the days when she was a mouse, always hiding in her hunched shoulders and skirts and imaginary boyfriend.

Bea and Vera part ways. It's time for lock up. Bea goes to her cell. Vera goes to her home. It's a sad life for them.

In the locker room, a large presence looms behind her. It's oppressive. Instinctively, she shrinks into her self, struggling to break free from her shell – falling into the grey area between Deputy Governor and Governor.

“Got a lot on your plate, Vera. How's about you and me go out? Like old times,” Fletch says.

At the memory, her skin crawls. She cringes when she remembers that terrible night. That statue that he thought would fix everything. That journal with those sick thoughts. That cold stare that made her weep for several nights.

“I can't, Fletch. I'm sorry.”

What she almost says is this: _Sexual harassment claims would ruin you, Mr. Fletcher. Do not solicit your governor again._

It doesn't come out.

It sounds more like Joan.

How's she supposed to tell him that she prefers drinking alone?

When she turns around, Vera doesn't know what to make of the look Fletch gives her. It makes her feel lonelier. She leaves the prison behind though it seems to follow her on the commute. That evening, she buys a bottle of vodka at the liquor store, lingering in the aisle of reds. _What am I doing?_ She doesn't know where her common sense went.

Finally home, Vera deposits her keys on the table. They fall noisily. She turns to greet and feed Frances who swims in his little bowl. She'd prefer a hamster, but some sacrifices are necessary. Long hours away would kill the little guy, she figured. As a child, she had one with velvet fur. Sasha bit her mother and so, Rita got rid of it. That was that. No excuses from Rita. All she had to say was the following: “The pest had to go.”

With a shake of her head, Vera removes a shot glass from her cabinet. She doesn't waste time in pulling the vodka out of the paper back. Downs the liquor in one go, accompanied by a grimace.

“I don't know who I am anymore,” she confesses to no one.

A part of her still yearns for Joan's guidance. She loosens her tie. Blames it on how the suit constricts as the day rolls on.

She doesn't care much for the burn, but it's something.

 

 


	7. The Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After three days, Vera visits Joan again. The brush feels heavier than a judge's gavel in her hand. There's an intimacy in brushing hair. Hair: the source of a woman's appearance, her identity, her vulnerability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just letting you all know that I posted two chapters in the same night so be sure to check out chapter six first!

> "Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her."
> 
> _Elm_ – Slyvia Plath

It's been three days since Vera's last visit. Seventy two hours. Three, grueling days. Joan has measured time for the repetitive ticking of the clock. Each second transformed into a minute into an hour. In that agonizing time, she focuses on the little hand spinning around, coming full circle. In focusing on the small noise, she is successful in tuning out the screams and moans of the other patients. Even in her absence, Vera proves to be a taxing distraction.

Returning to the ward warrants no homecoming. Vera knows this. Yet, it's familiar to tread across thin ice to find the ice queen herself, frozen by the system that she knew like the creases of her well-worn leather glove.

“She asked for you,” Nurse Atwood says while dog-earing her copy of _Frankie_ magazine.

“Did she?”

Suddenly, Vera feels flustered. She picks at the collar of her navy sweater. Her skin grows hot, as if she's tampered evidence. The nurse rolls her eyes and shrugs; it's her duty to administer medication and check in guests, she could care less what the patients ramble about. Every now and then, she catches onto the psycho-babble.

“She's a strange one. Seems to be planning something.”

Vera's cutting glare acts like a shiv, sudden and effective. The blonde shifts in her seat. Now, Vera recalls who Atwood reminds her of. Linda Miles. A younger version and a more apathetic Smiles, but a Smiles replica all the same. For a time, they had masqueraded as friends. It didn't last.

She signs her name furiously across the name. Dates the day.

“For your unethical response, I could have your license revoked.”

Atwood blinks, surprised by the bite to the petite woman's tone.

Nervousness gives way to rambling. Her snippiness dies alongside her courage. Out of habit, Vera babbles. It's a glimpse of her old self. Of the girl who dreamed of a brighter future.

“No, no. She's not. She's--”

She moves her hands frantically, searching for the right attribute. The right trait. The right word. The right thing.

_Strong. Brave. Vicious. Cruel. Tempermental. Manipulative. Hurt._

“… hurt.”

_Yes, hurt._

When Vera strolls in, Joan chooses to ignore her. Choice is imperative here. With her liberty deprived, she must stick to what little power she has inside this abominable place.

“I'm sorry I missed you.”

Rather than speaking, Vera breathes. Her dialogue tumbles out of her mouth, hanging by a thread. It's reminiscent of the old days when Rita Bennett still inflicted terror on poor Vera.

Joan is not Rita.

They are not the same person.

 _Oh, Vera. When will you learn?_ Ferguson thinks to herself. Her old voice comes back to her in bits and pieces, fragments of shattered glass that she arranges under the guise of a mosaic puzzle. It takes time for these rare moments of lucidity, but she refuses to let go of them.

The medication has finally become acquainted with Joan's system (or perhaps she's disposed of the evidence). Now situated in the ward, her quest for revenge yields a temporary setback. As a result of misdiagnosis, she chokes down a cocktail of drugs daily. Tranquilizers seem to be the nurse's favorite. Perpetual exhaustion tethers her to the chair. It won't last; this, too, will pass. That is how she learns to live in this white, piss-scented prison.

“I, erm, thought we could do something different today.”

She holds up a hair brush, soft bristles and a neon pink handle. It's absolutely childish, but Joan cannot muster the strength to bawk at its ugliness. Her crowning glory has seen better days.

A woman's hair often acts as her identity, her security, her sense of self, and her pride. Although the techs allow her to resume her night-time regime of brushing her hair at 8:05 PM, her ministrations are a mechanical afterthought. Joan's wrist flicks through five times and it's enough. It does not compare to her morning regime as acting Governor of Wentworth. The care she put into that tight bun is not there.

“I know you're in there,” Vera says and it feels as if she's talking to a doll rather than a grown woman.

She wants to be malicious. She wants to be cruel. To rip her hair out by the roots. To scream into her ear, “You hurt me. I don't know how to cope. You hurt me. I don't know how to heal.” Instead, she plays the saint card: healing through healing.

**Primum non nocere.**

Vera begins rather carefully. Knots and tangles intertwine. The locks form a plethora of loops, contributing to a maze that Vera loses herself in. With the setting sun hungrily lapping at Joan's tresses, the silver at the temples and threaded throughout reminds Vera of starlight. That softness renders her speechless.

Joan's hair is thick and beautiful, Vera notes as she combs her fingers through it, trapped in the inky abyss. She misses the bun that had been pulled back so rigidly, but that had been a different Joan.

Her own brunette curls are held back in a toothy, black hairclip. Vera opts to use the brush, starting from the top and working her way to the bottom. Gradually, the knots detangle. Stroke, stroke, stroke. The black curtain falls, guided by Vera's timid hand.

There's a certain intimacy of brushing hair.

Both wish it could last forever.

Yet, the task is complete. Vera finds herself lingering behind Joan, taking in the scent of Joan's hair. It's unlike how she knew her. She simply smells clean. Closing her eyes, she sighs and places her hand on Joan's shoulder.

Her pale skin stands out like the moon, blinding in its brilliance, beckoning a lunacy that her father warned her against. _No, no, no. You must remain strong, Joan. Resist. Look ahead. Remain in control._ Her cheek spasms, trying to control the twitch of her mouth.

"Vera."

At last, she speaks, her tongue heavy and cotton-like.

Joan's eyes flit over to the small fingers that linger there. Half-tempted to pry off the fingers one by one or to hold on and squeeze, she opts to do neither.

A conflicted nature has never been her forte.

What do you expect when you're at war with yourself?

 

 


	8. Dragged Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan doesn't want to be here. It's a taste of Hell. Her skin's flayed by a timid mouse that took out more than a thorn. Deep down, she always knew that the road to Hell was paved with good intentions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a pre-conditioned environment, you're not always yourself. Sometimes, this type of place benefits the person. Other times, it doesn't. If the system's bent, then the people cannot possible benefit. This correlates with my explanation for Joan's behavior in this fic. She's misdiagnosed and prescribed the wrong medication which leads to an uncharacteristic type of behavior. It's also a difficult topic to write about, but I'm trying! Hope you all enjoy the chapter. :>

> “Mirrors can kill and talk, they are terrible rooms in which a torture goes on one can only watch.”
> 
> _The Courage of Shutting Up_ – Slyvia Plath

“Vera.”

Robbed of her eloquence, Joan of Arc's been set aflame. Her throat burns. A heavy tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth. A single word borders the profane, but it's not a cross that Joan sees above the metaphor. It's Vera leaning over her from behind. It's Vera's curls that gently sway. This vision seizes her mind, scorches her memory.

Makes Joan grow tense, her body hardened.

Vera should not be here.

Vera should be gloating with her golden crowns, reigning a kingdom that does not belong to her.

“Why are you here?”

It's as though Ferguson has snapped out of a trance and rubberbanded back into reality.

Vera always liked the fairy tales where the princess had awoken from an enchanted slumber. Her embarrassing, pink sheets – a token from girlhood – speak of such a ludicrous fantasy. But now, she realizes that it's not the kind of tale she wants.

The glossy sheen to Joan's hair prevents the mouse of a woman from mustering a reply. Vera's gaze darts back to silver threading through black. Her fingers fall away from Joan's shoulder, her body growing limp. Drowning in the abyss, she finds breathing difficult.

It's easier, Vera notes, standing behind Joan and lingering in her shadow rather than meting her once fiery eyes. She steadies herself. Gradually, she cromes around to see the tall woman at her most lucid. Glassy eyes cage an animal within. _I'm not myself these days;_ that is what those hollow eyes scream.

But that's not true, is it?

She's been here all this time.

Joan sounds tired. It never dawned on Vera that a powerhouse of a woman – this pillar of forged strength – could actually be tired. Shadows linger beneath her stare. The blinding lights of the ward highlight things that Vera didn't notice before.

Her hand flies to where the scar from the syringe remains. It throbs beneath her touch. A phantom pain. It's difficult to forget.

Joan's knees knock together, fingers curled into her palms atop her thighs. She inhales through her nose. The air tastes of metal, tears, and mothballs. She wants to retch at the place, at the deplorable conditions, but she has always prided herself on her remarkable self-restraint.

“Water, please.”

Vera recognizes the tone well enough. Not quite begging, but a command as though it's been issued over the radio. Sierra Two to get the goods and dodge a bullet of a question.

“I'll fetch you a cup.”

She climbs though she drags her feet across the tiled floor. The plastic cup, decorated in pastel yellow and blue, looks childish within Vera's slight hands. Water sloshes round and round. It's then that she realizes that Joan does not belong to her. She is not a possession to look after. Nor is she a doll to coddle.

Silently, she offers over the paper chalice. A medley of anti-psychotics and tranquilizers affect her hand-eye coordination. Reflexes have been hindered by the crooked system. Joan inhales. Pretends the object is a foil, her slender fingers aspiring to grasp the hilt. She reaches for the cup. Misses by a few centimeters.

“Here, let me--” Vera begins, inching closer, invading what little personal space Joan possesses.

“I am **not** your mother.”

Joan hisses after she issues the hurtful words through clenched teeth. She lifts her head slowly in an attempt to gain composure. At the retaliation, Vera winces. It's a constant cycle of guilt and agony, written across the lines that are engraved into her forehead.

Vera rubs the crook of her arm.

“I don't know, Joan. I don't know why I'm here.”

_I do know._

The cup's clenched tightly in her hand, threatening to bend, when Joan realizes that she no longer thirsts.

Humbled, Vera kneels. The ground cuts into bird-like skin and bones. As a reminder of this day, bruises vow to appear. She forces herself to look up, reminiscent of the old days. Of the old Joan.

Face to face, a mirror effect occurs. Their eyes tell a story that only the intended audience can decode.

As these encounters tend to be, it's dragged out. Silence befalls them. It's not a guillotine. It's a fucking gavel coming down hard.

It's hard to say that either woman feels quite like themselves.

At the sight, resilient Joan flares her nostrils. She wants to tell someone – anyone – how humiliating this is. On a good day, seeing Vera on her knees would instill a sort of haughty smugness. Not today. She'd rather the woman stand.

A person on their knees is the most dangerous kind.

“We can't just talk these things out,” Vera whispers.

The ward helps some, not all. Being here isn't helping. It's hurting. Hurting. Joan's lungs turn into iron things; her body aches from the inside out. She chooses to say nothing. To play an ode to vacancy. How do you work through something like this? This undefinable beast of burden that looms between them.

This hour comes to an end.

“Visiting hours are over,” Nurse Atwood announces when she tucks away her issue of Cosmo.

“I have to go.”

 _Her_ deputy – no, the **Governor** – looks ruefully over her shoulder to the glass panel that the nurse hides behind.

“Then, go,” Joan murmurs in bitter resentment

She goes.

She looks back and Joan cannot stand it.

Her father never showed her pity.

Jianna never showed her pity.

Vera lingers by the exit, her right hand raised. She turns to the blonde who has begun to layer on the foundation, hiding something (hiding nothing).

“No one's visited her. Only you,” Atwood says before she leaves.

“Not even her godson?” She finds it strange. Recalls his photo in a file. His life of crime begun at such a young age.

“No. Who is he?”

Resigned, Vera wraps her hand around the door handle.

“A ghost.”

Atwood's unblinking eyes and mechanical quality of her voice suggest that this type of job eats away at you. It eats away at the young, the old, anyone susceptible to an ounce of compassion.

Retreating back to her foggy stoicism, Joan does not watch Vera leave. She listens to the click, click, click of those short heels with their worn nubs. Alone, at the table, she laces her fingers together. She looks to the clock where the little hand trails far behind the long one. Again, she waits.

Joan doesn't want to be here. It's a taste of Hell. Her skin's flayed by a timid mouse that took out more than a thorn. Deep down, she always knew that the road to Hell was paved with good intentions.

Looking back, she won't remember this.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some rhetoric involved with the chapter which may make it seem confusing. It's a sidenote on Vera's part: an accumulation of the doubt that manifests inside her during these visits. Some of it's meant to be contradictory with phrasing since both characters, at times, have been known to contradict themselves. It's always two steps forward and one step back with these two. Will she remember? Won't she? That's the dilemma, really.


	9. Destruction Makes the World Burn Brighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Governor Vera Bennett performs the daily ministrations of work which once served as a welcome reprieve from the chaos of her life. Her deputy, Will Jackson, manages to perfect the art of self-sabotage. He's a boulder heading straight toward Vera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the positive reviews! This is another Vera focused chapter. It shows how Vera is free to go in between these public/private spheres, but Joan is essentially trapped within the ward. However, even at her job, Vera finds herself imprisoned by the ruminations of the stress that comes with the title.

> “History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop, over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.”
> 
> _Little Beast_ – Richard Siken

Governor Vera Bennett performs the daily ministrations of work which once served as a welcome reprieve from the chaos of her life.

Now, it's anything but.

Down the darkened cooridor, the petite woman pulls herself through another double. She understands how tiring it is to work a shift back to back. With the recent cuts, she's had her most trusted officers endure the grueling hours through sleep deprivity and a quick caffeine fix. Consequently, her people are as bitter as the inmates. She's let off a few for the evening to repair the sore muscles, glassy eyes, and frayed nerves.

It's a small sacrifice for the greater good.

Vera frowns. Swallows and remembers Joan in the ward. Joan reaching for the water. Joan hidden behind her curtain of hair. This Joan is a different woman.

Without her mentor, she feels lost.

Now, her right hand man's on a bender.

Vera notices this in the way her deputy moves. Will's fingers hammer his thigh. The chorded veins in his neck threaten to burst. Elevated blood pressure causes his heart to sommersault behind his pining ribcage. Will Jackson's reckless behavior reminds Vera of an accident waiting to happen and she doesn't know what to do. As a bystander, she watches him make a ruin out of himself.

“You're seeing that freak?”

_How?_

Vera's mind flits to the one she trusted most: Dr. Westfall. Bridget who, time and time again, skirted along the fine line of confidentiality and twisted it when she deemed it to be a conflict of interest.

Vera feels hurt.

Again.

His tear ducts could be bleeding, but the night light plays tricks on the eyes. Capillaries have burst and she thinks about Jodi Spiteri. Poor, sweet girl who had been a cog in the machine. Poor, sweet girl didn't deserve a thing.

Slurring, Will reeks of hard liquor and good deeds gone bad. He stretches out the s, intent on making himself out to be some venomous snake. A job in corrections is parasitic at best. The career gets under your skin and distorts you. Robs you of your smiles and your happiness. To cope, Will's turned towards vice: cocaine and alcohol in seedy bars where the women don't care that he's lost a wife and a former career in social work.

Some nights, he still dreams of Meg laying by his side, looking into his sad cocaine eyes.

He wants to cry, but he can't. Will presses the heel of his palm into his swollen lids. Lips peeled back, his teeth are shown. He resembles an animal in pain.

Self-sabotage, Bridget will call this fine display later down the concrete road.

“You're distracted, Mr. Jackson. I need you to work beside me. Not to go on a vacation in your head... Or wherever you are.”

Vera cringes. She cannot watch this happen. She tries to turn away, to approach the sanctuary that her office promises.

“Honestly, Will. This is something I'd expect from Mr. Fletcher. Not you. I need to be able to _**trust**_ you,” she continues with a remorseful shake of her head.

 _Trust_.

Trust echoes and hammers inside her skull. A fierce pounding that she'll call a migraine.

 **Trust**. She remembers trust as a time where Joan poured her a drink during their little debrief. Then, another. And one more. Joan let her hair down. Opened up to her. Laughed so richly that it felt like warm velvet wrapping around Vera.

_Trust._

That's gone now.

Nothing can replace the sensation.

It surprises Vera to see Deputy Jackson so deflated.

“I have nothing left, _Vera_.”

A part of her is compelled to reach out to him. To lay a hand upon his hulking, shuddering shoulder. He still grieves, having never fully processed Meg's death. The same Meg Jackson who told her that her compassion would flatline her career.

Her chest constricts, her body threatening to fold into herself. Meg had been correct: too much empathy will kill you.

“Go home,” Vera murmurs softly.

Stumbling, her back hits the wall. Dwarfed by her deputy's height, Vera swallows due to her discomfort. Will sways closer to her. He's angry. He's sad. He's acting out on basic, human emotion. His thumb hides beneath curled fingers, forming a fist. It's not her that he means to hurt. He's hurting himself. He's hurting--

Bracing herself for impact, her palm's palm facing a man who's built himself up on sorrow and blow. A doe-eyed look takes Vera back to her softer days. She doesn't have the heart to give him a temporary suspension.

It scares Vera. It scares her to know what people are capable of.

“Go home, Will. Just... Go home,” she repeats herself, voice now loud and incredulous.

“I'm sorry.”

At least he has the courage to say it.

 _Me too._ Vera aches to reply. _About everything._ She thinks of adding. None of it comes out. Joan's right; she's a mouse. She's a lamb in a metal house full of wolves.

Will staggers off, bringing along with him the last of his common sense.  
Oppression dresses Wentworth. The hallway constricts. Vera tries to breathe, her nervous hand flying to her sinewy throat. Stressed out, her temple starts to pulsate. Her teeth graze her bottom lip. Nibble, nibble. Gnaw, gnaw. Her lips are chapped. Her lungs are crying out.

She snaps the band around her wrist. Once, twice, thrice. The mark left behind is ugly and red. She convinces herself that it's okay. It's okay, because she wanted these crowns. She wanted this position. She wanted it all.

Hand in pocket, Vera forces herself along, propelling one foot in front of the other. Her keys bite into her knuckles.

Safely tucked inside her office, she locks the door behind her. It cannot keep out whatever demons she figures to chase her. The line rings and she doesn't get a reprieve.

Director Channing's on the phone, his voice rough over the static.

“You're distracted, Vera. Fix it. Fix this,” he demands.

“I am trying, Director--”

Vera very nearly whines into the phone and realizes just how pathetic she _sounds_.

“Try harder.”

 **Click**.

She is not Joan. She does not rule through the machinations of fear. She is not Meg. She does not rule without a heart. She is not Erica. She does not rule though empowerment. She is none of these matriarchal figures.

_I feel like I'm falling apart._

Sighing, Vera gazes out the window with the shades drawn open. Outside, the floodlights bathe the courtyard. There's an empty patch of dirt where the garden used to be. She misses how the roses used to look.

_No, I'm not the one that's broken._

Her fingers creep to the base of her skull, nursing the migraine that blossoms there. Vera reminds herself that she has not come undone. She is not Joan trapped within the psych ward. She is not Bea Smith struggling for dominance and purpose. She is free to flit in between these worlds.

“Ah--!”

The noise does not belong to her.

But oh, it does.

She tries to banish the pain by popping two aspirins that were stored away in her (Joan's) desk. Blunt nails brush against a sharpened pencil. The wood shavings bless her with a splinter. She shirks away from the drawer, shocked by the affliction.

With her wrist to her chest, she casts her sea blue gaze upon the newly hanging paintings adorning the wall. Inmates poured their heart and souls into the watercolors that depict soft, intimate colors. Blue, green. Faded bruises splashed across a canvas.

It reminds her of the sky, of the sea, of the way Joan looked with her hair let down, of when everything seemed so fucking _easy_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to retitle this chapter as: "Vera is constantly stressed and shit hits the fan. Again." The poor women never gets a break, but that's what it means to be Governor. You're meant to govern the correctional facility. Of course, we see Vera become governor in the show. But... I thought it was too sudden of a switch during the course of Wentworth. It would be a steady incline (or decline, depending on the way you see it) that turns her into the S4/S5 governor we see her currently as. For a time, I sincerely do believe she would feel lost in this position. I still remember when she was temporarily the governor after Meg's death.


	10. Flatlands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Underneath the crook of Vera Bennett's arm, there is a gift that digs into her side like an arrow, promising bittersweet martyrdom. The corner of the cardboard cuts into her side rather sharply. Under fire from the board, she wants to laugh at the irony of smuggling in art.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, I convince myself that I should make a mixtape or soundtrack that ties into this fic! The title is actually inspired by the song of the same name by Until the Ribbon Breaks. On the side, I'm working on a few other fics as well. ; ) Some Joan x Vera. Another is simply a compilation of character themed drabbles. Soon they will see the light of day!

> "The paint doesn't move the way the light reflects, so what's there to be faithful to?"
> 
> _War of the Foxes_ \-- Richard Siken

A file sails across the white tips of a young woman's (girl, Joan thinks, a girl that lacks passion and drive) nails. Scritch, scritch, _scritch_.

The dust – no matter how miniscule – falls in a small mound atop the metal desk. Joan imagines the sight, dead cells and the shadowy remains of a human, in a meaningless pile.

She cringes at the grating sound.

It reminds her of her father's calm before the storm. The way he polished his rapier that hung on display in her childhood home. It reminds her of the way he shouted until his face grew red and sweaty, the veins bulging in his neck, his spittle hitting her cheek. And how she struggled to wipe away his saliva, feeling filthy.

“What happens when she stops visiting?” Nurse Atwood asks, tone neutral.

There are some things you shouldn't say.

The question brings Joan out of the past that has held her hostage as of late. She blinks. Stunted by pills of varying shapes, colors, and sizes, it renders her stationary. Glued to a chair that does not truly belong to her. She's trapped and hates every moment of it. She digests the nurse's genuine curiosity that's masked by a tasteless murmur.

Joan remembers that hope is futile. She glares with her throat tight, her eyes puffy from her readjusted sleep cycle.

_Think, Joan, think._

She straightens her back, ignoring the screaming tension of her muscles, courtesy of their disuse. Her rigid spine pops. In an attempt to gather her thoughts, her pointer finger taps the desk three times.

“She won't.”

Now is not the time for the flowery and the complex. Her statement comes across as brutally short, similar to the accused standing on trail with the simple “I didn't” or “I _did_.”

And Vera does return.

Somehow, it puts Joan at ease. There's a winded relief that she has to mask with a vacant expression. Medicine and poison are all an acquired taste.

Discreetly, Vera pulls the nurse aside.

“Can I bring her flowers?”

Anxious eyes flick to and fro, as though she's a conspirator in the making.

“Flowers may carry insects that promote the spreading of disease,” Atwood replies. It seems well rehearsed.

Vera finds this frustrating beyond belief. It's like talking to a wall that constantly pushes you back. She bites her lip. Tastes dead skin and grimaces.

Underneath the crook of Vera Bennett's arm, there is a gift that digs into her side like an arrow, promising bittersweet martyrdom. The corner of the cardboard cuts into her side rather sharply. Under fire from the board, she wants to laugh at the irony of smuggling in art.

_What am I doing?_

Again, Vera asks herself this.

A permanent chill sweeps through the ward, as though the air's on full arctic blast. It takes every ounce of self-restraint for Vera not to shiver.

“You can't bring that here.”

“What?” Taken aback, Vera's gaze flits over the woman's name badge. There's the initial, C, and she wonders what it represents. What her first name could be. What it could mean.

“The art,” she deadpans. “A patient is liable to ingest the materials. It's toxic.”

_Toxic._

Bridget had said the same thing about Joan.

Vera laughs and replies, “How silly of me.”

It's a tittering noise bordering mania.

“Pastels are allowed given that they're non-toxic. No harm in ingesting them,” Atwood elaborates and Vera finds that she could care less about the alternative. What matters is the here and now.

Aware of the risk to smuggling in the paint, Vera is also aware of how mentally stimulating art can be.

“Here,” Vera says and throws a denomination at the nurse. Atwood quirks a brow, searching Vera's lined face for some social cue. Wordlessly, she accepts the money. Folds the bills into quarters and tucks it into her brassiere for safe keeping. A pineapple can hush a woman who has stopped caring.

“If a guard catches you, I didn't see it. You smuggled it in, you pay the price.”

“ _Fine_.”

Atwood turns her attention away from Vera, crossing her legs while tugging down her white, ironed skirt. Something tells Vera that this isn't the first time she's done that. Next time, she'll make it a note to ask for her name – not the one on the badge.

“I read in an article that art promotes positive thinking,” Vera announces and sounds so damn proud of herself. Had she played a recording of that moment, she would have looked away. Called herself pathetic (an echo of Rita who stained her soul).

Hope shines in her sea blue eyes. Her typical, anxious smile shapes her coral pink lips. The installation of the water colors in her office are pastel strokes accentuating a once blank canvas. She thought of the prisoners painting those pieces when she made this purchase at a local craft store. She thought of Joan with a brush in hand, compensating for wasted time.

The image on the cover depicts a landscape. An earthy meadow holds the sun captive with a brilliant, blue sky as a backdrop. Doubt flickers in the back of Vera's mind like an infectious disease. She would have been better off bringing an art history book detailing Artemisia Gentileschi's _Judith Slaying Holofernes_ , but what did a simple-minded mouse know about such things?

Gently, she sets the piece down on the table. She slides the canvas out of its envelope. Each vibrant color has earned a number. Joan finds herself both curious and insulted. It's difficult, but she manages to control herself. To push through the haze.

The caged tigress sneers.

“I thought it could be a soothing hobby. You match a color to a number. Look.”

Without intending to sound patronizing, Vera points to the canvas with its light blue lines that mark the numbers. It's a jigsaw pattern without the pieces fit into place. An image cut into a million pieces, akin to the shattered glass that littered Joan's once immaculate apartment floor.

 _How demeaning._ Joan very nearly turns her nose to it. In the end, she refrains. Vera is the only contact she has to the outside world. As much as she loathes to admit it, she looks forward to these encounters.

“Ha.”

As best as she can, she deflects. Vera demonstrates. She dips the paintbrush into a grey marked as fourteen. Gentle strokes, similar to the motions of combing through Joan's hair, are guided by her wrist. In concentration, the tip of her tongue sticks out. Joan hasn't seen that look in months. She finds herself swallowing the bile that makes her so rotten to the core. That's made her ruthlessly methodical. That's made her... into _this_.

“Don't.”

Joan's hand spiderwebs. Rather than talking, she snarls. It's positively feral. She regrets it, seeing the hurt that flashes across Vera's face in lightning effect. Once on the defense, she cannot stop herself.

“I'm sorry,” Vera apologizes as a reflex. “I thought you'd appreciate the distraction.”

_Save your pity, Vera._

Somehow, the brush is exchanged between them. Joan dips the bristles into the small paper cup of water that clouds in the aftermath. She stretches for the white that's labeled seventeen. She adds to the clouds, her gaze lingering on the empty sky.

“Are you attempting to infantilize me?” Joan asks.

Perhaps this is a hallucination. Perhaps not.

_I'm sorry. I don't know what to do._

“Art simulates the mind in ways that sitting there can't.” Patience waning, Vera strikes. There's a bit of bite to her. It's what Joan's been expecting.

“I always knew you had it in you,” Joan responds in that matter-of-fact tone. Vera cannot recall the last time she heard it.

Stupidly, her mouth hangs open.

Joan offers a half-smile: the type to hide truth and lies.

“Do “stimulate me” by bring me a Stravinsky record next time.”

Records are not allowed in the ward. Vera's already consulted an extensive list. Anything, in the eyes of the staff, can be turned into a weapon given Macgyver-esque ingenuity.

Joan continues to paint with white, supplying the canvas with minute highlights that matter in the long run. Speechless, Vera bites her tongue. She tastes iron. Her tainted blood.

Out of place, Vera falls silent. Her hands forming fists in her lap.

They can never stop the hurt.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A pineapple refers to a fifty dollar bill in AUD!
> 
> There's a reason why I made Atwood's character into a trope. Through her negligence, you see the mistreatment of the patients and the total apathy that contributes to the abuse of the system as a whole. Of course, this doesn't apply to all wards! In Wentworth, however, it seems abundantly clear that this hospital had its downsides.


	11. Reins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In her absence, Vera sends a letter to Joan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end notes once you finish!

> “I want order. I say I'm old myself. I've started throwing things away. I'm lying. I've kept everything she's ever given me.”
> 
> _Mother's Closet_ – Maxine Scates

“Letter for you, Ferguson.”

Nurse Atwood interrupts her murky, grey-addled thoughts. In between two fingers, the girl in her white uniform holds a crisp envelope. It fans within her grasp, swaying and leaning towards Joan who blinks at the interception. The letter's already been read, processed, and deemed safe. Here, she has no rights.

A quirk of her mouth is the only reaction that Joan can spare. Though she walks, her feet seem to drag. Medication proves to be a hindrance, amputating her potential courtesy of a high dosage. At the surprise, she raises a sculpted brow. She's never liked surprises very much.

With a surprise, you can never prepare for the explosion to come.

Or the fallout to follow.

Joan flicks her wrist, crooking her fingers in a “come hither” gesture. Atwood lingers behind the clear glass panel, akin to a child that holds her playmate's precious doll out of reach. The nurse's touch ghosts across the flap where the glue has disintegrated due to the steam that allowed the staff to open it in the first place.

Nurse Atwood opens the door. Hands it over. Retreats to her glass den.

As she approaches the window, a perpetual stiffness riddles Joan's gait. Her body's grounded, her feet glued to the floor, reincarnated as a piece of the earth. Turned to stone, her muscles seem to weep. She cannot recall the last time that she has practiced fencing.

Alone, in the corner, a hunched woman sobs.

Afternoon sunlight nips at the envelope, providing it with a translucent skin. She holds this piece of paper up to the light. Somehow, it seems brittle. Half-tempted to tear the eight by eleven to pieces, she resists. Remaining in control, her eyes scan the page. Vowels and consonants jump out of place, but Joan narrows her eyes to will them into focus.

' _I'm sorry I couldn't be with you today, Joan. It's not that I didn't want to. I couldn't.'_

Joan's mouth opens and closes. In the shell of her ear, she hears the mouse whisper and squeak. The letter is handwritten. She commends Vera for that much. Yet, her slanted script indicates a romantic nature. The cursive is as dramatic as a fading starlet taking to the Vegas stage. Perhaps Vera isn't aware of it.

On another day, Joan will consider it leverage.

' _I hope you don't feel alone there. It wasn't my intention to leave you by yourself. I was told that writing letters helps both parties in the healing process._ '

Vera's not the type to write a first and final draft. With a woman like her, the first draft is messy. It's emotional. It's raw pain that's crossed out by a million black lines and erratic scribbles.

Given the overall neatness, Joan assumes that Vera has rewritten the letter at least three times. She can smell the woman's perfume clinging desperately to the pages: water lillies and vanilla. The fragrance managaes to be subtle, but overpowering.

“Vanilla. Hm.”

How extraordinary

How _ordinary_

In a dark wave, Joan's hair falls past her shoulders.

' _Had I your consent, I could have gone to your house to pick up the record. I know you wanted to hear Stravinsky. You always had a thing for music. That sounds silly, doesn't it? I'm not good with my words. Not like you, Joan. Staff advised against it. The music, that is. I was told that they couldn't wager how the other patients would react. It could be dangerous, but I listened. I didn't think so. It's beautiful..._ '

“Excuses, Vera,” Joan says aloud.

From disuse, her voice sounds a stranger.

Below the paragraph, Vera has chosen to include some of Stravinsky's score, written in her own hand. An excerpt of the Cello's part in the Firebird Suite graces the page. Joan recognizes the melody. The notes dance along the staff. She can hear the crescendo in her head. If she closes her eyes, she can feel the music flow through her.

Arguably, her mentee has done her homework. She imagines the woman hunched over her desk (Joan's desk, not Vera's; it doesn't belong to her) while conducting research and perusing various browsers with a gusto that matches Sherlock Holmes.

Her lips form a mirthless smile, the lines framing them are slightly curved.

' _I couldn't bring you what you wanted. I never could. '_

Joan tries to dip her feet into the past and remember the time where she first stepped foot into Wentworth. She imagines Vera beside her in the comfort of her home, Stravinsky playing softly. She tries to remember the way that _The Rake's Progress_ goes. Joan orchestrates with her finger while her wrist sails through the air. Reality blends together with fiction.

' _I'm sorry. I still feel hurt by what you've done. I used to be angry; I still am. It doesn't outweigh the other feelings that make me feel like I can't breathe. I can't always be there. Seeing you like this... it's hard, Joan._ _'_

The affliction of the heart causes her chest to twist painfully. Ivan taught her to not be sentimental. To burn her mother's letters when she was thirteen. That way, they could never be salvaged. She thinks about those lost pieces of paper collecting fire in her bathroom sink.

At the time, her father loomed in the doorway, his shadow dark and oppressive. Before she could salvage the wreck, the pages turned to ashes. Alone, in the comfort of her room, she wept.

The memory bleeds into the present. At the fresh slice of hurt, she sucks the air in through her teeth. Broad shoulders stiffen. There is nothing pragmatic about this fall from grace. Inwardly, she curses herself for falling victim to petty emotion. For not being a thinking machine. For being too human. For loving Jianna. For trusting Vera.

Vera's absence makes Joan yearn for the woman.

It's infuriating.

It's maddening.

' _Please get better, Joan. These woman need you. I--_ '

She reads it once, twice, thrice. Memorizes Vera's words. How they sound the same in the way she speaks. Mouths them the last time. As sweet as honey, but there's a bee sting.

' _\--need you to be well._ '

Her former deputy manages to pick at the chords of Joan's being.

Methodically, she folds the paper into three parts. Joan keeps it amongst what little personal belongings she has here in this clinical hell. She will tuck it underneath her mattress. She will not tell the incompetent doctor about this. Some things are better left unsaid.

"Was it a good read?" Atwood asks.

Her tone tells you that she doesn't care. It's the type of question that an uncaring parent proposes. Joan chooses to ignore the nurse, regarding her with a cool stare. Unphased, Atwood returns her attention back to her glamorous magazines.

Finally, Joan begins to move. She shrugs off the chains that bind her to a lonely spot near the window. She sits and resumes the pose of a thinker, her knuckles propping up her chin. Her elbow props itself on the round table.

“It was,” she parries. “That it was.”

It's hard pretending that nothing is wrong.

  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably isn't the best chapter I've written. I've been reading articles about what family and friends tend to bring patients in a ward. I read that sending letters is a good idea, as it can be a bit of a mood lifter. I had also thought about writing the entirety of Vera's letter as another chapter, but I'll leave that up to the reader's imagination!


	12. Simple Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vera searches for answers in questionable places. What key can a cemetery possible hold aside from the dead? The dead never speak the language we want them to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely a shorter chapter in comparison to the rest. Hope you all enjoy, regardless!

> "I do you wrong -- it's like dying."
> 
> _Duse_ \-- Laura Moriarity  
>   
> 

Outside, the leaves are turning brown, dying on the ground. In the air, a tired woman can smell the pending rain. It looms in the clouds. Makes them pregnant with sorrow.

With her hands thrust into her pockets, Vera Bennett strolls through the cemetery. She takes to the dirt path that's riddled with stones. Beneath her feet, the ground feels uneven. She almost trips. Her sapphire scarf whips around, tugged by the mighty pull of the wind. The peacoat hugs her body tightly. Still, she shivers.

It no longer suits her disposition.

Wasting even more time, Verse excuses herself from her duties to further promote this little "investigation" of hers. For better or for worse, she's left Will in charge. She's failing as governor. This distraction is a testament to the fact. Under constant watch from the board, Vera knows the end will come. It simmers down to a single word.

When?

In her head, Dr. Westfall's words play off track: ' _Obsession leads to blindness, Vera. Don't let yourself be consumed by her. It's what she wants. You're her victim._ '

The diagnosis Vera had been so accepting of now nags at her like Rita's ghost. Somehow, it feels wrong. Joan's unconventionality earned her a slot in a place where she does not belong and Vera's to blame. Always to blame.

Coming here, she assumes that all of the answers will fall into place. She's wrong to think such. Nothing greets her save for the suffocating sound of silence. Vera can hear the blood pounding in her ears, accompanied by the rustling of foliage.

Bouquets of flowers long forgotten begin to wither and rot. A tall monument threatens to dwarf her small stature. This, she's used to.

The path leads her to her final destination. The search for Ivan Ferguson ends here. Vera expects a monument and not the small, marble tombstone that she finds amongst the other faded ones. There's an efficiency to the lithography that screams ' Joan! ' in volumes.

She looks around this haunted landscape that's bathed in grey, conspiracy filling her lungs. Again, Vera must learn how to breathe. The teeth of her clip catches in her curls. Pressure from her bun begins to give her a migraine. She doesn't let her hair down; it's as though she's forgotten how to.

Concave dirt speaks of a hollow tomb, an empty womb that suggests she will live her life out as a spinster. Perhaps his ashes are laid to rest in Russia.

Korsakov, Russia, Vera discovered, happens to be a town with a picturesque port. While sipping a glass of pinot, Vera committed the hunt online. Found that you could go on a cruise there and nearly laughed herself silly until stitches riddled her sides.

Now, she stands over the grave of a someone turned no one. She expects this man to be larger than life. In a way, it's disappointing. She tucks her hands under the crook of her arms. The same numbness washes over her as it had during her mother's funeral.

"Did you mold her into this?"

Vera tries to understand. Her blue eyes squint and her wrinkles seem to multiply.

"Did you manipulate her? Did you do _this_ to her? Did you?"

She knows that she sounds repetitive

There's little concern of invading Joan's personal space. In fact, her concern tends to outweigh guarded privacy. Perhaps Vera's become her mother after all.

She figures that she's taking Dr. Westfall's advice to heart: healing through feeling. Her body attempts to fight off the cold. She shivers on the spot, trying to remain stoic while failing altogether. Empathy tangles itself in knots. In this moment, she doesn't hurt for herself. She aches for Joan.

(Does it always hurt this way?)

Vera almost spits on his grave. Almost.

It's a good thing she's superstitious.

Anger bubbles, akin to an unwatched pot. Within her, it flares. It's ugly and sudden. Her lower jaw works itself from side to side.

As of late, Vera has become more reckless. In order to locate this cold trail, she had broken into Joan's home. Walked through those empty halls containing the remnants of a teenaged boy – an alienated godson falling into a vicious cycle – only to find a framed photograph of a father, a daughter, and a shared moment after a match.

Now, she wishes she had spent more time there, but she knows that she did the unthinkable.

“It doesn't matter now. You're dead. Mum's dead. You can't keep hurting us,” she says, her voice the clearest it has been in quite some time.

How can a skeleton compare to a photograph of a man?

Vera knows the answer.

She walks away, leaving behind Ivan Ferguson, her head held high.

It's best to leave him buried.

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially, I was going to have Vera visit her mother's grave as a means of tying loose ends, but I thought this a more interesting direction. Vera's beginning to overstep her boundaries. She becomes intrusive rather than helpful. She tries to understand though she goes about it in the wrong way. These women are just so deeply involved in each other's lives that it would be impossible to detangle Vera from Joan and vice versa.


	13. Sunstorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When reaching for the same card, their fingers brush together. Joan doesn't back away. It surprises Vera. Who controls this moment?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like any relationship, there are ups and downs. From the looks of this fic, there are far more downs than up, but don't fear. As Marilyn Manson would say, we're at the high end of the low.

> "What lasts is what we have. What we have done."
> 
> _The Missile_ \-- Laura Moriarity

Come mid-afternoon, Governor Bennett brushes her fingertips over embroidered gold crowns that perch on her shoulders. She twists her body at an acute angle. Admires herself in the bathroom mirror, but she's left feeling empty here at Wentworth.

She tries to give herself confidence. She struggles to keep her chin up, the shadows fanning across her neck. The affirmation band around her pale, frail wrist leaves an angry welt behind. Vera ignores her sore joints. She leans closer toward the mirror, trying to discern just who she is.

She sees a ghost of a woman.

A notion.

A could-have-been.

For Vera, fatigue's a common beast that pulls at the skin around her eyes.

With a sigh, she shakes her head and makes for the exit.

Bridget Westfall, resident forensic psychitriast, catches her by the door.

"Vera, we need to talk."

The acting governor pinches the bridge of her nose. Sucks in the air that tastes stale. Yet, it doesn't compare to the psych ward. Nothing can compare to the scent of antiseptic fused with misery and piss.

"No. We don't, Doctor Westfall."

She breezes past Bridget who stares at her backside, blue eyes wide in disbelief.

And she's left hanging.

The cycle continues.

Vera goes to the ward. Call it obligation, call it hopeless devotion, call it obsession. She chooses to call it _nothing_.

Teacher mentors pupil. Pupil visits teacher. Full circle.

Today, Vera tries something new. She totes along a deck of cards. Gambling is not the name of the game. She couldn't understand the allure of betting large sums, only to lose them all. That vice had always belonged to Miles and Miles alone.

The nurse sees the red and white box in her hands. Atwood raises her brows, as condescending as can be.

"Careful. Wouldn't want to give her a papercut."

Vera represses the urge to flip her off. These days, it's becoming more difficult.

She thinks by bringing different gifts – small offerings, smaller sacrifices – that this will magically heal the vapid woman in front of her.

Vera sides beside Joan, the intimacy familiar. She expects shrewdness. She expects wisdom. She expects prose. She expects a strong drink. She expects a debriefing that will never happen again.

It makes Vera miss Joan's cunning.

"I brought a deck for us to have a go at solitaire. Have you ever played before?"

Joan prolongs the inevitable. It's to keep Vera here longer. First, she runs her tongue along the roof of her mouth. She debates, in meticulous fashion, her answer. Should it be short? Should it be blunt?

"No."

Joan never saw a purpose in the game.

Yet, her reply serves plenty purpose.

"Mum taught me how. The only good thing, I suppose."

 _No, Vera. She taught you how to live._ Joan muses in reverent silence.

This little mouse shuffles the deck. There are seven stacks with five cards per line. Each row has a card face up.

"I used to play quite often on the computer," Vera confesses rather sheepishly.

She flips a card over to form a row of red on black.

Although the sun burns brightly, it's pouring outside. Joan cannot recall the last time it has rained so much in this place. She turns her head, hearing the harsh sound. Droplets pelt the windowpane. The days here have a peculiar way of melting into one another, as indistinguishable as a Picasso piece.

In an attempt to make small talk, the former deputy opens her mouth to fill the gaping silence.

"I am sick of all this rain."

Vera scrunches her nose.

"It's soothing," Joan counters. The rebuttal manages to hush the younger woman.

As a side effect, Vera's hands tremble. Nowadays, she bruises easily. In front of Joan, she hides these things when it shouldn't matter. Shouldn't matter at all, but to Vera, it does.

When reaching for the same card, their fingers brush together. Joan doesn't back away. It surprises Vera. Who controls this moment?

Together, they flip the card over. Through collaboration, he Queen of Hearts hides underneath the Jack of Spades.

Few people come to visit the patients here. Vera notices this during her newly developed routine. A tittering man rocks back and forth on his heels. His arms swing by his thighs. His posture reminds Vera of a chimpanzee. She winces, never meaning to dehumanize him.

She continues to stare, head over her shoulder at a painful, crooked angle.

"In the time I've been here, he's never had a friend or family member visit him," Vera remarks.

"That can be a burden," Joan intercepts quietly in that eerily hushed tone that's been stripped of her eloquence, her barbed wire front.

"Is that what you think of me? A burden?" She asks in disbelief, a scoff to accompany the blow.

The pills rob her of her dignity, of her tact, of herself. Joan's shell sits here and gives a "no" in response. It doesn't placate Vera. Instead, she flips the cards over with a growing sense of urgency.

From the corner of her peripheral vision, Joan watches her flinch.

Vera doesn't bother throwing her a yellow card.

"I saw your father."

It's abrupt. The words cut like a knife, ruining the calm that settled between them. Joan stops what she's doing. Slender fingers loom above the neatly organized rows. The animal within stirs awake. She bares her teeth, her face a parody of human grief.

When Ivan died, she never made the time to mourn. The funeral arrangements came easily enough. It was the emotional aftermath that chose to linger. Repression only went so far.

"Get out." A whisper that you can barely here. "Get out!"

Joan raises her voice, her chair thrown to the right. In the distance, Nurse Atwood moves to call the guards. It's a cinematic ruckus that needs a resolve courtesy of a syringe.

How easy it is to shout and push away.

Again, Vera feels like a stray that's been kicked aside. Again, Vera flinches, remembering all the times that Rita raised her voice. As a reflex, she draws her arm towards her mouth in an attempt to protect her face. She doesn't stay.

It's not worth the backhanded blow.

 


	14. Lone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Creatures of isolation suffer from the worst dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the fastest that I've updated anything in awhile. It'll serve as some compensation for the busy work week ahead! Thank you for all the love and support!

> "O God! Can I not save one from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream?"
> 
> _A Dream Within a Dream_ \-- Edgar Allen Poe

In dreams, the human conscience comes alive. Completely alone, two women lay in separate beds, consumed by their clouded, drowning minds. To be alone is a sensation both are accustomed to. There's a solace found in the silence though a dull ache keeps each awake until exhaustion seals their paper thin eyelids shut.

Night paints the ward in muted shades of grey. Joan Ferguson rests on her side, her body cast in a practical, albeit comfortable position. Dark eyes threaten to burn a hole into the brick wall that's been painted white. It's reminiscent to the padded cell that the orderlies had first thrown her in. The difference is a slight one: minute cracks and crevices speak to the fortress' weakness. Give a building time and it'll collapse. Every fortress is penetrable, should you find the right place to strike.

With this in mind, she lulls herself to sleep.

Sleep, Joan finds, is a necessary evil.

An efficient rest of five hours provides her body with a few REM cycles. During her governship, her schedule remained the same. Now, she finds her sleep disturbed at random sporadic intervals, courtesy of the pills that she's forced to swallow.

Her dreams turn into nightmares.

In a foggy haze, Joan puts Shane to sleep as she used to do. Jianna lingers behind her. There's a certain softness to the inmate's touch, her hand lingering on Joan's rigid shoulder. Beneath it, she relaxes though she finds herself much too awkward in handling a child. Jianna reassures her. Calls her a natural. It soothes her soul. Calms her in a way that even her father never could.

The moment is ruined all too soon. The warm bundle in her arms becomes hushed. Worn, fleece blankets fall lax. The cooing infant melts and transforms into grains of sand, trickling down.

“Don't leave me. Not you too,” Joan whispers before turning her profile to the young mother. It shocks her how someone can smile so sweetly and sadly at the same time.

“I'm sorry, love.”

Jianna, darling Jianna, gives her oafish hand a squeeze. It's the same hand in which Ivan said that no one would dare to touch. To hold. To caress.

Slight fingers slip out of her grasp and she's left alone in a prison cell that's swallowed up by black and blue, mottled bruises under the guise of sinister shadows. There is no lock to allow her a taste of freedom. In the distance, she hears laughter. Faint, at first. Then, heinous and grotesque. The inmates are laughing.

They laugh at _her_.

She swallows her discomfort, trembling akin to a newly reared fawn. It is unlike her. Joan knows that she has ridden herself of the young, gangly girl she used to be. The new Joan is made of iron, but even iron rusts.

“I am woefully disappointed in you, Joan. Your emotional weakness has crippled you. I knew that you would amount to nothing.”

Her gaze ventures to the épée licking at the cold, metal bars. Ivan grazes the bars with his trusted sword. The blade cannot hurt her. It cannot touch her. Yet, she finds his words to be the most piercing.

"Rise, child. Step into the ring, Joan."

She does not respond to his venom. Her hands wrap around the bars, twisting and bending metal to her very whim. There is no ring for her to step into save for an empty corridor.

At the top of the staircase, Will Jackson tightens the noose around her beloved's throat.

“No!” Joan shouts, her vocal chords rubbed raw from the gut-wrenching scream. She lunges though she's always too late.

Too late, but a voice calls to her as a sliver of sunlight. A tiny microscopic glimpse of hope presents itself in a mouse-like fashion.

“Joan, Joan. Wake up, Joan! You can't keep tormenting yourself. You can't keep hurting others. Joan--!”

That voice, lacking a face, is a familiar sound.

She knows that it belongs to Vera.

In a cold sweat, she rouses from the nightmare. She turns her vacant expression to the locked window that holds a sliver of moonlight. Her hand trembles while idly, she wonders how many pills it takes to kill this sensation.

Miles away, Vera Bennett trudges towards her bedroom. Once decorated in girlish pinks, she decided to paint it over with a neutral beige. It has a calming effect on her, but doesn't distract her from her thoughts that so often focus on Wentworth. The job never leaves you. Work has a habit of following you home. Lonelier than usual, Vera helps herself to a shot. To help her fall asleep dreamlessly. It doesn't happen. Hours of tossing and turning breed restless dreaming.

Her world's now painted in melancholy blues and greys.

Like a harpy, Rita flies at her. Her mother's frail hands wrapping around her neck. Those elderly, varicose veins match the ugly disposition of a woman embittered by loneliness. The shrill screaming rings her ears, similar to Wentworth's shrieking sirens.

"You killed me, Vera. You killed me!"

“N-No! I didn't. I had to. You were suffocating me. You were killing me.”

She tries to say all of this and fails. With bulging eyes, Vera gasps. She coughs, splutters, and chokes before throwing up her arms to toss this burden aside. In the blink of an eye, she slips out of Rita's sinister hold.

Skeleton hands become a needle that caresses her neck. The object shows her as much compassion as a scorned lover. A rag doll meets its fate at the end of its mistreatment, Vera is no different.

With her wrists pinned behind her back, her feet remain tethered to the the spot before the gate. Craning her neck, she focuses on the camera that hangs in the corner. Reflected in the lens, she sees a smile on her face despite the terror in her eyes. She holds the needle to herself.

The kiss from the needle causes her to fall.

Falling onto her bottom, she slips across the slick, tiles. She hears laughter accompanied by the muted reassurance that she is a failure. Again, she sniffles, feeling small and insignificant. The potent stench of vinegar floods her nostrils. She's soaked in her humiliation with a tall man looming over her.

It's Fletch.

The look in his eyes is akin to a man at war who turns his humanity off to cope with the slaughter. Vera smells gasoline. She struggles to stand. An unseen force keeps her pinned to the ground, drenched and shivering.

“For the greater good,” he mocks, jabbering his bulldog jaws while singing that familiar tune.

He lights a match.

Her screams are cut short.

Someone pulls her up. Her ankles feel like cheap elastic, threatening to snap. She leans against the anomaly. Vera thrives off the warmth, closing her swollen eyes. She feels the cold bite of leather caressing her bare wrists.

The gloves sever contact.

"I will keep you safe, Vera."

It's Joan who lifts her up as though she's as light as a feather. It's Joan who swears an oath. It's Joan who croons sonorously into the shell of her ear.

And it's all too much to bear.

An anxiety attack pulls her from the throes of sleep. Her heart thrums against her chest, eager to flee her frail body. Frantically, she snaps the band around her wrist.

Flannel blankets pool around her waist. Sweat soaks the sheets, her body consumed by a hellish fever. Her trembling refuses to cease. She's choking on air, suffocating on nothing. Her fingers flutter to her collarbone, silently wondering if any of it was real.

The act of pulling yourself together again is a painfully difficult feat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an emotional standpoint, this was a tough chapter to write. Though they're simple dream sequences, it tells a lot about a person's character. I do have some fluff fics to write on the side. So, hopefully that will alleviate some of the heartbreak.


	15. Maw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How are you supposed to forgive when you cannot forgive yourself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to only update when I'm beat. Yikes!

> "Dear Forgiveness, you know that recently we have had our difficulties and there are many things I want to ask you."
> 
> _Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out_ \- Richard Siken

“She's not in the right state of mind, you know,” the nurse interrupts Vera before she even has the chance to sign her soul away to the hospital for future records.

Atwood raises her brows in a way that's reminiscent to Wentworth's resident Lee Radcliffe. It's then that Vera realizes that she's never much cared for makeup as a piece of armor; it hides too much ugliness.

"I know," Vera snips with the gusto of an angst-ridden teen.

Today, they have exactly one hour to speak. Sixty minutes. Aproximately three thousand and six hundred seconds.

Vera's late and nothing makes it excusable.

Joan stands, her body a dead weight. She could be frowning, for all Vera knew, but she could not tell with the curtain of hair that obscures such a cunning mask. Her arms swing by her sides, similar to the fatal swing of a guillotine. It frightens Vera. Scares her to bear witness to the crumbling of a once statuesque woman.

The wrong drugs make Joan disoriented, improper, unbalanced. Her entire life -- that has once weighed on checks and balances -- now amounts to nothing.

This is what it means to be rendered hollow.

Vera scampers along, her feet shuffling at a vigorous pace. Joan's vacant stare follows the act, burning holes underneath those worn soles. It takes her back to the early days of governing Wentworth, of effectively mentoring Vera. It causes her chest to ache. From that, she stiffens.

Collectively, they shiver from their dreams that sing to them like prophecies. When closer, their shoulders brush against one another. Hardly, one would surmise, given the palpable height difference between the two. To Joan, it is a pest attempting to harvest the crop too soon.

“Vera.”

“Joan.”

They sit down.

Vera wearsa blue camisole. The visitor badge hangs heavy on her shirt. It's the first time she's noticed these things.

The fog hasn't lifted all the way; she prides herself on these astute observations that are tucked away for safe keeping.

Seated on opposite ends of the table, they parallel the dinner that they shared months ago. No meal acts as a divide. No wine influences the conversation. Instead of Joan's life decorated on the ledge behind her, it's a barren window with a patient pretending to be a helicopter while spinning in circles on the dead grass below.

Neither of them know how to act properly or behave, for that matter.

"You think you molded me. You didn't. I'm not you."

The little mouse is proud of herself for laying her cards down flat on the surface that tries to separate them. At the nuisance that has become Vera Bennett, Joan quirks her lips. After all, a lack of a response tends to be the best response.

Vera talks more than she used to. When nervous, she babbles. The audience isn't a crowd, but a single woman that she's tried to impress on far too many accounts. Her fleeting glance sneaks over the barren white surface between them. For some inexplicable reason, it suffocates her more than prison walls.

"I wasn't sure of myself." There's the telltale sigh of resignation that Joan knows to come with poor self-esteem. "I'm cleaning up your mess. I can't do it."

Again, the song is sung.

Joan tilts her head, as though she's baiting a reaction from the younger, smaller woman that's naught but a bundle of taut nerves. All of this noise is similar to the gadfly buzzing near cattle, begging to be swatted at.

"I-I-I thought we had something."

Vera skips like a scratched record, wanting to cry.

Joan purses her lips.

_We did._

"I wanted you to care for me. I did."

Joan strikes when it suits her.

"Do you expect your happily ever after? Is that why you've made it a point to visit me?"

It's the most that Joan has uttered in days.

Upon being splashed in the face with such startling acid, the old Vera would have shrunken back. The newer and improved Vera has gained some confidence. Desperate to connect, Vera reacts. Gently, she takes Joan's hand into her own. It feels warm. Clammy. Hand on hand, neither budge.

Joan stares at the pale hand with its upraised veins. The small hand that struggles to encompass her own. This is an emotional confrontation that she wants no part of. She cannot control the situation; she cannot control the outcome. She can hardly control her voice, as a testament to this abominable place.

"You hurt me, Joan," Vera swallows after she speaks, as though she's the one to choke down the pills morning and night. At last, she musters the courage to say it. "And I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt you. I wanted to help you."

"Did you think before you chose to act?"

It's snappish, it's tart. It's all rage that's been successfully dampened by a medicinal effect for so many unforgiving months.

"This Joan I didn't know and I don't **want** to know."

_No one did._

Vera's technique speaks of Zornhau, the wrathful strike. She hits where it hurts.

General prejudice surrounds Joan. Saddled by burden, Vera lowers her shoulders. She thinks about the inmates. Her coworkers. They all slander the woman who's been temporarily dismantled by another corrupted faction.

Vera no longer knows what to think about Joan Ferguson.

Her expression falls. Her eyebrows pull together, the lines of stress amplified.

"You never gave me a direct answer when I asked for it. I'm asking you again. Why didn't you save me, Joan?"

A familiar track replays the classic song.

"It was necessary, Vera, for the greater good. You had to save yourself."

Vera's hand is burning Joan. Vera's eyes are setting her on fire.

On the stake, she feels the heat.

"I could have died."

Her voice breaks. Cracks. Splinters.

“You didn't,” Joan replies in a simple tone that only she could afford in this fragmented state of mind.

Pestilence breeds disease and that is what Vera is: a pest. A part of Joan is irked by Vera's insistence. Her relentless nagging masked as concern. Loyalty molds Vera into this thing that nips at Joan's heels, unable to carry any tact to accompany her delivery.

The tension is palpable. Their hands remain linked, forged together as iron that's been reworked into something new.

"I didn't want to hurt your feelings," Vera begins softly. Pressingly.

It's an arrow embedded in her side.

Her disciple stands on a fine line that ought not be crossed.

Ferguson's words come back to haunt her: _y_ _ou're vulnerable when you're alone._ At the mere mention of human emotion, she wishes that she had the energy to guffaw. Instead, her reactions are sluggish, restrained by a temporary setback.

She chooses not to focus on human flaw. By choice, she guides her proud head upright. Her narrowed eyes catch the way in which Vera's curls fall. Vera wears her hair down. Joan cannot remember the last time she's seen it this way.

Vera runs her thumb along Joan's knuckles.

"But I hurt them anyway."

Denial is a bitter friend in the end. Joan shakes her head.

Again, she fails.

She fails and her father's voice isn't there to demonize her. To berate her. To knock her down.

Her glassy eyes form tears that she blinks away. She knows why they're there. Logically, she faults the pills. Emotionally, she ought to feel nothing.

At last, she opens her mouth to speak, more of a puppet than the strict, professional governor that she used to be. In the ward, she's a shadow of herself.

"Is that all?"

The mouse removes her hand and everything becomes several degrees colder.

The shade from the tree outside begins to sweep across Joan's face.

Vera gets up to leave.

 _Stay_ , Joan wants to say.

Stubbornness snaps her mouth shut.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted some of this chapter to parallel the infamous dinner date of theirs. When thinking about these two, I'm reminded of Apologia Sokratous (The Apology). These two are similar to Plato and Socrates. Joan faces countless accusers; what's her defense? Secondly, have the staff and inmates of Wentworth been affected by the accused? Vera has.


	16. Movie Screen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They call this recreational therapy: the film jumps and skips. A male nurse bangs his fist against the projector. It doesn't help. At some point, the orderlies stop trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is surely one of my slowest moving pieces. Sometimes, I feel that the chapters have a mind of their own: individual snippets, screenshots, moments in time that are captured between them during this troubling time no matter how briefly. Alternatively, I suppose I view the chapters as one shots that are interconnected somehow -- sort of like a chainlink fence, if that makes any sense. My mind goes a million miles a minute. Thank you all for standing by me and enjoying the wild ride!

> “Human will, however, is never enough.”
> 
> _Duse_ – Laura Moriarity

At approximately seven PM, recreational therapy begins. A line of patients shuffle into the room, their beaten slippers resembling a child's tattered security blanket. Fridays feature the infamous movie night. The masses coo and caw in anticipation. Some stand; others sit. An orderly tries to nudge a woman with thinning hair down into her seat. She doesn't obey. She shrieks. She's taken away.

Joan twitches her lip at the surmounting chaos. She takes a seat in the back row. It's odd, given the type of person that she is. Normally, she would sit herself in the fornt – make her presence be known, but no – she has no need for that here, too lost in the medicated wave that has her dreaming of ghosts.

Tonight, the sits in a plastic chair. They are not granted the privilege of metal, collapsible ones. Staff deems the latter to be unsafe. The ridges dig into her broad back. It leaves a mark.

An old black and white film plays on the screen. The projector buzzes and whirrs, louder than gadflies nipping at a twitching flank. Irving Rapper's 1950 rendition of _The Glass Menagerie_ begins to skip and spurt on the screen. No one seems to notice.

A patient to her right furiously taps their head. At the annoyance, her eyelid twitches.

To be rendered invalid is frustrating at the very least.

Joan's fingers curl into the underside of her hand. She hardly feels the sensation: numb, but not dumb. There is an acute awareness that gnaws at the back of her head. Vera's visitations have grounded her in a way.

A memory play loses its meaning in cinema. Hollywood's happy endings take away from the harshness of reality. She hates the film. Prefers the book by far. At least Williams was gifted in his craft; a director falsely manipulates the piece.

Her nostrils flare. This is a great waste of time.

There's a woman on the screen -- who Joan recognizes to be the matriarchal figure -- delivers her monologue. This defining moment is lost to the sea of fools that she now drowns in. Instead, Joan imagines herself, alone in her home, with an old record playing. Korsakov serenades her rather than the grating tune of Amanda Wingfield, her shrill voice full of loathing.

The darkness of the room juxtaposed to the brilliant light radiating from the screen sears her eyes. Joan closes them, remembering Vera's latest visit. Remembering the sensation of that hand upon her own. Remembering her words.

_I didn't want to hurt your feelings._

Her chest grows heavy.

She runs her tongue along the inside of her cheek which hollows in the aftermath. The roof of her mouth tastes like the pills, acrid and powdery. No amount of water can wash it all away.

Once unraveled, it's difficult to pull the seams back together. The fabric of her being folds, bends, and tears. Frustrated, Joan tugs on the hem of her stale, grey gown. She needs tranquility. She needs control. She needs Vera. She needs a plan. She needs, needs, _needs_.

Joan forces her eyes open.

Bette Davis stares back.

What is seen is not always so.

She questions the fabric of reality.

She questions her sanity.

The dull pounding in her skull reassures her that she exists. That she's flesh and blood. That she made a poorly calculated error. These ruminations leave her with a rot that she ought to cut out.

_Focus, Joan._

The film jumps and skips. A male nurse bangs his fist against the projector. It doesn't help. At some point, the orderlies stop trying.

_You cannot think through this medicinal filter._

Here, it's easy to lose yourself. She needs to make a difficult choice. The choice is difficult: wake up or stay asleep. Governors always make a tough call.

Her hand balls into a fist that beats her thigh until it threatens to turn blue. And maybe it will.

Joan listens to the voice in her head, unsure of who it belongs to. Waking up (truly waking up), she looks around, surrounded by a state of rotting bodies – mindless vessels held prisoner by a system that tried to fix what's been broken. Waves of disgust wash over her.

She sits straighter in the chair, picturing a desk cast before her image.

Here in this place, There are no glass animals for her to shatter.

Save for Vera.

Vera, her glass mouse living in a glass house.

 


	17. Noorus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conflict becomes a mandatory fixture within a prison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see! It's been quite awhile since I last updated. Work has been insane. Picking up a lot of doubles to save money, but we're also a tad short-staffed at the moment. Thanks for bearing with me.

> "They can be swallowed or absorbed through the eyes. There is no other defense."
> 
> _Golgonooza_ – Laura Moriarity

Conflict becomes a mandatory fixture within a prison.

Another bashing, another day.

Her elbows rest on the table, succumbing to the strain of her job. She masks her stress with a lonely hand to shield her face. It makes her come across as weak. Vera knows this. Hence why the blinds are drawn shut in her office.

Governor Bennett hears a knock at the door.

"Come in," she calls out.

Her voice sounds so woefully small. A throwback to her days when she had still been green behind the ears. She curses the naivety and wishes she could be someone stronger. Someone like Joan.

Inwardly, she beats herself up about the affair.

_I need to be more assertive._

The affirmation band hangs limp around her tiny wrist.

In walks her deputy with his hands clasped in front of himself. In what may be a display of male bravado, his chest puffs out. Will Jackson's eyes water. Could be the drugs. Could be the memory of Meg that he's quick to bury. Vera doesn't speculate. That falls onto Dr. Westfall.

Vera looks this man up and down. She's not eyeing a piece of meat – far from it. She compares Will's usefulness that's to a dog that's been tamed. Like Mr. Fletcher, her deputy makes up for what he lacks in brains through brawn. Unlike Mr. Fletcher, he has compassion. Distaste lingers on the bed of her tongue.

_God. When did I start thinking this way?_

Her bottom lip touches her knuckle.

“What is it, Mr. Jackson? As you can see, I'm very busy.”

She feels a twinge seize her. He knows that she's not busy. That she's beating about the bush. That she's thinking of softer days. Days before the chaos. Days where someone knew how to _control_ this chaos. This fucking madness.

The assumption, in itself, is ludicrous. Vera projects her fears and anxieties onto a widower's face that shows concern.

“Governor, the women--” he starts to speak. Maybe there's some effort thrown into his orchestration. “--they're not happy. Smith and Proctor are going to start a bloody war. We're going to be liabilities if we don't do something about it.”

“Will, I don't mean to knock you, but if I were to give into every demand, _nothing_ would get accomplished. I already have the board breathing down my neck. I can't do it. I can't please everyone.”

It's the same old song and dance.

Jackson wants to empathize. She can see it written clear across his face. Thick brows drag together, his expression twisting as though he's chewing on something.

“Come with me, Vera. You'll see what I mean.”

For a moment, Vera imagines a role reversal. She pictures Will in this seat with a blazer and crowns. Would he be sterner? Colder? Wiser?

No, he was smart in being 'dumb': it costs you the hot seat.

It's difficult to say no.

Vera stands up. With legs made of lead, she trudges towards the door. Obediently, Will follows her until they're out in the hallway. There, they stand side by side, marching at an amicable pace. It's not in sync. She tries to be graceful with her long strides, but it's downright comical.

“What is it that you want to show me--?”

_I'm not blind. I know what's happening._

She hollows her cheeks.

Before Will has the chance to respond, their radios go off. “Sierra” – accompanied by an assigned number – is not a lullaby. As if on auto-pilot, they run. There's a rush to get to the scene, followed up by a white, hot panic that takes over the mind.

Vera dwells on the worst case scenario: death.

In the cafeteria, Proctor grabs an officer's radio for her soap box agenda. The officer's new; she's fresh meat to this pride. She looks dazed, her ponytail frizzy and her eyes glazed over. She's not thinking, she's not speaking.

“The abuse in this system is abhorrent,” Kaz states. “The women in this facility of survivors of hardships that you can't even begin to image. What they want is change. What they need is change.”

"I don't want to hear it, Proctor. You've one chance to put an end to this," the mouse squeaks.

Hand out, she braces for the retaliation. Vera shakes her head, ever a creature of habit.

She issues her declaration, hopping on the table with her fingers triumphantly curled around that little black radio that's now become victory's torch.

"Hear me out! You screws are not listening to these women. We have a voice and I am not afraid to use mine."

Vera snaps her eyes over to her deputy. How useless they must appear to all these prisoners: two bodies in the crossfire while standing idle.

"Slot her! Stealing an officer's radio is a slottable offense."

“With all due respect, she could be right,” Will starts.

She doesn't let him finish.

There's too much hypocrisy going around.

“I don't care! Put yourself to use and slot her, Will!”

Vera's forehead starts to pound. It feels as though the uniform is strangling her. Caving in on her. With a growing sense of urgency, she tugs on her tie. Her deputy obeys with a hands on approach, seeking to bind those flying arms. When the radio hits the tiled ground, it cracks. The sound of static becomes deafening.

A martyred tigress gets carted away, kicking and screaming. She gets lucky; Kaz manages to scratch Will's face. Two red welts mar his cheek. Resident Top Dog, Bea Smith, watches the brawl. Smith's fists are buried into the depths her jacket's pockets, undoubtedly hiding her winning hand. Smith and Proctor exchange a stare that weaves a hundred stories.

A quick fix acts as a solution to all.

It'll come back to haunt Vera. The smaller decisions always do.

Days like these, she's eager to return to her lonely life that resumes within her childhood home. Vera throws off the suit jacket. It lays on the ground in a lifeless puddle. One by one, she kicks off the heals. They stand crooked. She tugs on the noose that is her tie. It makes her choke. She coughs, consumed by the storm that swirls inside her head.

_I can't do this. I can't be her. I can't run this prison effectively._

Ruled by negatives, a slow poisoning manifests itself.

Tomorrow, she vows to visit Joan.

She would have a solution for every problem.

But is that what it means to stand on your own?

To lean on someone else's fortitude?

Vera closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose, and rubs her face. Nothing can rouse her from the nightmare that is her reign as governor. Vera drags her tired, worn body to the table where the only living thing (besides herself) resides.

She taps on the glass bowl.

Frances ignores her, as he is wont to do.

The goldfish swims in circles with a vacant stare. She should have bought a mouse instead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In regards to the title chapters, each is a reference to a Chelsea Wolfe song which I highly recommend. Music influences my writing considerably! The song's title and/or lyrics tend to tie into the theme of the chapter. At least, I like to think so.


	18. Spinning Centers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a sweetness coated in a gut-wrenching yearning that remains unfulfilled. Their fingers interlace. It feels like melting into one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be sure to check out chapter seventeen as well since I updated two days in a row. :)

 

> "Their relationship consisted in discussing if it existed."
> 
> _Jamesian_ \- Thomas Gunn

Being short-staffed due to allocated funds, Governor Bennett takes pity on her staff. She tirelessly works a double until a savage ache gnaws at her ankles, her knuckles, her wrists. The strain threads itself through her back to the point where she finds it challenging to even stand properly.

Disheveled and tardy, she arrives at the ward. Akin to stumbling in the dark, she trips on her way inside. Vera embodies human wreckage, the vestige of her uniform a sorry sight to behold. In the visitation room, a chill sweeps through her. The icy air's akin to being soaked by the crisp morning rain.

"Can't you do something about the temperature in here? It's bloody well freezing," Vera mutters aside to the blonde who hands her the clipboard that feels heavier than a dead weight.

She scribbles her name, the letters dancing off the straight line.

Atwood looks blandly at the woman who chatters her teeth for emphasis. From afar, she could pass as Radcliffe's clone.

"No."

Vera stares.

The nurse continues, "Studies show that decreased temperature levels improve a patient's psyche--"

"Okay, okay. Enough." She waves her hand, refusing to hear anymore. "Do you even care what happens to these people?"

Something switches in Atwood. She shifts in her chair. Maybe she's grown a conscience. Maybe she's cultivated the seeds of her guilt, but it's doubtful. You need to be numb -- null and void -- to _survive_ this place.

"I used to."

The confession leaves Vera raw.

Having heard enough, she makes her way over to Joan seated at the table like a guest of honor. Remnants of her uniform cling to her petite frame. The suit pants and shirt with the first button undone is all that she comes to bear. Chair legs scrape across the ground (it's far from hallowed). Defeated, she takes a seat.

“You're **late**.”

Joan, once a woman intent on utilizing purposeful eye contact, now looks away. She clicks her tongue when she places an extra emphasis on the “t.” Somehow, a single sound cuts deep.

Vera's frazzled.

The little mouse hugs herself to fight off the biting cold of the ward.

“Your job keeps me busy,” she says before faltering. Before correcting herself. “-- _my_ job.”

Two hollow women occupy a table formerly used for playing cards. Neither know who they are anymore. Identity grounds you. Once lost, it ruins you.

“Mm.”

It's the wrong thing to say.

Vera gives herself an inward kick for good measure. She winces, her features pinched as though she ingested a mouthful of castor oil. Their conversations seem crisper these days, devoid of their warmth and companionship they once shared. It's an exchange that scorned lovers share after a messy break.

She doesn't want it to end this way.

“I was angry. I'm sorry. I don't know how to control myself sometimes...”

The brunette trails off, her voice dictated by uncertainty. Finally, Joan turns her face. She arches a sculpted brow, her lips thinning. Small gestures speak in volumes.

"I didn't like the old me so I changed," she babbles.

Joan lays her hands on the table, the veins noticeable against the pale contrast of her flesh. Blue eyes follow the curvature of those slender fingers. Temporarily distracted, Vera doesn't register the softness behind the husky tenor.

"–I did."

The knot at the base of her head is an insidious welt that hammers against her skull. Vera moves to unfasten the tight, bun. Her hair falls loose, curly, from the grueling restriction. A hand hides her eyes. Then, her mouth. See no evil, speak no evil.

Butterflies flutter about, filling up her stomach. Her heart. It feels like Joan's noticing her for the first time all over again.

"I forgive you," Vera utters.

A corner of Joan's mouth shifts. What could have been a ghost of a smile vanishes, her eyes abysmal. She feels stuffed full of cotton, a doll that's been torn apart from mishandling.

“I should be the one to forgive you... My doctor, he taught me about forgiveness.” Her gaze flits down, her raven mane a wave to mask her haunted face. She dislikes mentioning him; he's a tar black stain. A vile worm. She swallows and continues, “--The second stage is _hate_.”

She studies Vera's features. The small, pert nose. The sheen to her hair. The bags under her eyes that match her own. This isn't a mirror. It's a portrait.

Admiring the value of such a beauty makes it near impossible to spew

Tilting her head upward, Vera notices the cracks in the ceiling. She sucks in the stale air. Funny how a smell accompanies a taste. Ammonia, tears, and piss. Her pupils drag along the crooked lines on the wall. Those hairline fractures will eventually cripple this foundation. This place promises to collapse. It's only a matter of time.

To say she stopped caring is a lie. To say she hates this woman is another lie. Vera cares too fucking much.

Joan cares also.

All of this collateral damage gets them nowhere.

"I want to try again."

"Try what? You must be more clear with your words, Vera."

"I want what we had."

"You want too much. You **betrayed** me, Vera."

Driven by fierce denial, Vera shakes her head. She could stand trial and the evidence wouldn't promise her freedom in Joan's eyes. Guilt has woven itself around her body. Grinding her teeth, she chokes back the bitterness. She wants to grab Joan by the shoulders and to say, “How can you be so lucid right now? How can you be this calm?”

The gaslight reprise is enough to drive anyone closer to the edge.

Compulsively, Vera decides to react. Her elbows meet the end of the table, her forearms now resting on the surface. She reaches for Joan without a single hint of brutality. There's a sweetness coated in a gut-wrenching yearning that remains unfulfilled. Their fingers interlace. It feels like melting into one another.

Joan permits it.

No one has touched her in this way since Jianna.

Vera's hands remind her of freshly printed paper. Soft to hold, not yet wrinkled by time and tarnished by the mechanization of society. There's a smoothness to them though a few fingers are calloused from holding a pen, a gun, a pencil.

Joan grazes her nails over the younger woman's knuckles.

This time, Vera shudders not from the cold.

"Where does your loyalty lie?"

A familiar question.

It's déjà vu.

_\--With you, Joan._

She thinks to herself. Yet, driven by ethics, she cannot bring herself to parrot those magic words. Her teeth work her bottom lip raw.

Joan begins to pull away, seemingly satisfied by the lack of a response on Vera's part, but allows their fingertips to remain in contact.

"Vera, my dear, you're green behind the ears."

"What is that supposed to mean, Joan?"

She speaks in an exasperated tone.

"You thought of it yourself. Where is your backbone?"

_In your fist._

"I don't know, Joan. Where's your mind?"

A strained smile toys with Vera's mouth that has become suddenly less meek.

They choke and recoil from one another.

A condemned woman struggles to remain composed. Joan swallows, her throat working through the habitual motions.

"Are you aware of the fourth stage, Vera?"

Almost childishly, Vera shakes her head.

"You must renounce your resentment to heal."

Like a loaded gun, Joan reaches out. Ensnares Vera's wrist. She runs a finger pad along the inside. Traces the patchwork of blue veins. Tugs on the cuff that's been unbuttoned somewhere along the way. She doesn't release the smaller woman, the cage finally capturing the bird. With a strangled cry, Vera presses her forehead down on the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note, there's one line in particular that I'd like to mention: "You need to be numb -- null and void -- to survive this place." This is Vera's assumption, not my own. It's a bit ironic considering her profession. You could say that this is a reflection of who she's becoming.


	19. Deep Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is an art to becoming unhinged. A spellbinding performance that stuns the audience. In this case: a single observer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a bad habit of updating when I'm sleep deprived after long shifts at work. Then, I rush to make quick edits when I think no one is looking. Oopsies. Pardon the quality!

> "I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it myself."
> 
> _The Metamorphosis_ – Franz Kafka  
>   
> 

After slotting Proctor, Governor Bennett finds no solace in the grind of paperwork. Sheets of loose leaf sprawl across the desk. The lines appear faded and blurred. She strains her vision though her eyes beg – scream – for her to stop. To give it a rest.

_Useless. I can't even sign off simple budget requests or file a report. What happened to me?_

While her hand glides over the table, she listens to the telltale rustle. The pages form a circle rather than a pile. Any modest secretary would scream at the sight. Terribly distracted, Vera struggles to stand. A soreness itches at her hamstrings.

There's a staff meeting that follows. Will Jackson sits beside her, his calloused palms dragging across his thighs. Her officers line up like little ducks, waiting to be shot down one by one. Vera doesn't bother in looking for their weaknesses; she tends to think that they make up for it in strengths.

Perhaps she's wrong with her assumption.

It's easier to rule in fear.

During the meeting, she feels as though a stranger has slipped into her body and is speaking for her. She listens to her voice from afar, expressing concerns about Smith's status as Top Dog and Proctor's increasingly meedlesome behavior. She tells the staff the truth of the matter – that, financially, Wentworth is failing.

It's difficult to say.

But then it's over.

"You're still seeing her," Bridget discloses to Vera after the staff meeting. She looks at the governor with pity.

Pity. Of all things.

Westfall's Blue eyes glimmer like sapphires. Vera thinks that she hears disappointment in her voice. The last time someone has been disappointed in her was not her mother, but Joan.

"She's alone in there."

The mouse at the table diverts her attention elsewhere. She stacks the paperwork in a neat pile atop her desk.

"Have you listened to yourself?” The blonde asks incredulously. “You've changed."

Bridget touches Vera's wrist. Puts a halt to the fidgeting of the small woman that hides behind a great, big desk. Vera grows tense, her breath hitching in her throat. Her lungs sing, reminding her to exhale. To let out all the rot.

"Don't let her get into your head again, Vera."

The Trial of Socrates reinvents itself, reborn in the complicated affairs of two equally complex women. With an irate shake of her head, Vera gazes at the mess she's created. Some of the papers shrink from her chaotic touch.

“She didn't stick the needle in.”

The defense of an acolyte sings true.

“She may as well have.”

Bridget leans her weight on one side, her hip jutting out at an angle. The psychiatrist crosses her arms. Folds them tight across her chest. She can hardly handle the women.

Neither of them can.

In this situation, they're both ill-equipped.

The good doctor's advice is hardly helpful. For reasons she cannot explain, it procures a constant ache, akin to a molar that's begun to errode. She stops listening, only hearing the click of Westfall's heels as she disappears down the empty corridor.

It's wrong to push her one and only confidant away, but it's messy and she cannot clean up this human wreckage.

She wants to say, "You're wrong with your diagnosis." Nothing comes out. The rush that thrums and hums within her skull sounds similar to the ocean crashing against a cliffside.

That afternoon, she makes up her mind to visit Joan.

It's the only thing that makes sense.

Dressed in grey, she resembles a storm cloud rather than herself. Staring out the window, Joan sees a grainy reflection: a mirror image of an unconventional woman from the outside looking in. A ghost image stares back. Reflected in the window, a hand reaches for her, so slight and slender compared to her own.

From behind, Vera brushes a silvery strand behind Joan's ear.

"I've always wanted to do that," she confesses and abides by the last scrap of her innocence.

Joan feels a tug at her heart strings. The musical instrument that once stopped its operatic tune now flares. Her hand sluggishly moves over her chest and clutches the fabric that bunches beneath her touch. She controls her grimace. Instead, there is a hint of teeth. A crescent smile eases into place.

"You shouldn't sneak up on others. One might infer it as an attack by prise de fer."

_You oafish child. Handle the blade with grace. You must have tact, Joan._

Memories play with a growing frequency these days.

"I would never do that to you."

There is a boldness to Vera's touch: a love and care not yet squashed out. Her fingers flow through the abyss that's cashmere beneath her fingertips.

Joan wants to squish this pest beneath her heel. To dig her hands into Vera's spine and to rip it from her body. To dismantle her until she unravels as ribbon across Wentworth's dark, bleak halls. She imagines this ruin and sucks the chilly ear through clenched teeth.

Yet, another part yearns to protect this small woman who has buried herself so deeply under her skin that it's near impossible to break away.

To love and adorable her in the only way that she is capable of.

How incorrigible.

“Ah, my dear Vera, but you **did**. You did _attack_. Otherwise, you would not be wearing those pretty, little crowns.”

The rocky road between them threatens to become a landslide.

“I didn't set that fire, Joan.”

The tiny mouse squeaks and jumps up, chest puffed out in that artificial display of bravado. She furrows her brows, the lines between them forming deep grooves. Vera never wanted it to be this way. She doesn't want to leave Joan _lonely_ in this crowded room.

Joan pivots on heel. The ministration, itself, is slow. Steady. Careful. She turns a quarter towards Vera, her shadow stretching to the left, distorting her body in a crooked manner.

"You are no mongoose, Vera. You come in here with your grand accusations of how I molded you, manipulated you, and shaped you into this... _caricature_ that you are today, but you have no bite. I did not train you to chew on a viper's tail."

"What do you want me to say?" Vera fires back, her eyes aglow. "That I'm sorry? You turned me into something I wasn't. I don't even know who I am anymore!"

_So, brand me a hypocrite._

With a gulp, Vera swallows her hate. Banishes and disregards it as stomach bile.

"These people are **fucking** _prisoners_ , Vera. As am I."

There is an art to becoming unhinged. A spellbinding performance that stuns the audience. In this case: a single observer.

Unaccustomed to hearing Joan swear, Vera flinches. It's sharp and sudden, a pressing needle-like weight grazing her throat. Her body grows cold. Goosebumps prick her flesh. The fine hairs that grace her neck now stand on edge. Some memories refuse to fade.

Forgiveness is not all that it's cracked up to be.

A wolf in a bland smock clicks her teeth.

Joan reaches out, her fingers grasping Vera's collar, adjusting what's been slanted. This iron-clad woman smooths out the wrinkles. The sudden close proximity causes Vera's cheeks to flush. Joan invades her personal space, her granite gaze unreadable and scorching hot. Long, dark hair tickles her face and their lips linger mere inches apart.

For the two of them, it's torture.

“Do come back to me when you are aware of what you want.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get me wrong; I sincerely love Bridget and her character, but some of her tact when it comes to her methodology comes across as harsh or unsympathetic (especially with how she treats Liz in this season though it's... somewhat understandable, given her stress). I'm just sticking to my interpretation of Bridget's behavior, I guess!


	20. Sirenum Scopuli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pressing need for solitude pushes an already torn woman toward extremes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this entire chapter envisioned in my head. Sometimes, I can't always transcribe words to paper in regards to what I see. :/ I'm going to try to update another chapter come Sunday. Hopefully, I have the time! In the next chapter, Joan and Vera will cross paths again.

> "What cannot be said will be wept."
> 
> _An Alleged Fragment_ – Sappho

The governorship is not made for everyone.

Vera Bennett has come to realize this a tad later on than most. Blunt fingernails, gnawed down to the quick thanks to nerves, drum against her leather steering wheel. Reflected in her rear view mirror, she spies her name tag in reverse. The title – GOVERNOR – glistens against the onyx background. It's a pin that could easily be ripped from her chest: likewise with the crowns hand-stitched onto her small, bone shoulders.

She couldn't run the prison after Meg's untimely demise. Nor can she run it now.

After Joan.

She ought to mark time ' before Joan ' and ' after Joan. ' As ludicrous as it may seem, Vera cannot bring herself to laugh. That woman is the patron saint of her demise and Joan is her religion.

Time is meaningless, the grey sky unable to distinguish day from night.

When it rains, the fabric of time folds and bends.

Better said: when it rains, it pours. The winds howl louder than a banshee, pounding on her car door, begging for access to the small woman shrinking in the driver's seat. A torrential downpour threatens to flood the impending road. Heavy clouds mask the sun. Vera cannot help but to wonder where it went.

On her way to the psych ward, she replays old conversations though they manage to skip like a tape. Some are real; some are not. She cannot recall which are which. These days, she cannot remember the last time she slept properly. These days, she struggles to keep everything in line. The inmates. Her life.

The rain doesn't stop. Instead, it picks up.

Speeding down the road, the risk of reckless endangerment is a thought pushed to the recesses of her mind. Thoughts roar loud inside her head – an engine that's forcing the cogs to rub against one another.

Channing's voice registers first, ' _Get your act together, Bennett._ '

She envisions the tails of his blazer flapping behind him.

Will sounds softer, gentler when it adds in his own two-cents, ' _You can trust me, Vera._ '

Fletch is a cruder echo.

' _You just need a guy like me to lean on. Trust me._ '

Dr. Westfall tries to sound soft though she manages to cut like a knife.

' _Don't romanticize this, Vera._ '

Smith's throaty rasp resonates.

' _You're not workin' with me here. These women're going to chew you up, gov'na._ '

"I know, I know."

Vera repeats herself, her mind anywhere but in the present. Her meekness becomes increasingly prominent. These voices sing loud in her head, an algorithm of her tremendous stress. Did they always sound this way?

In rapid succession, Vera sees her life skipping across the windshield.

The windshield wipers flick back and forth, back and forth. Knuckles flex, bone white underneath pale flesh. She forgets she has a pulse, but she's still breathing. Her sad excuse for a car splutters and coughs, bustling down the lonely road.

Love, hate. Hate, love.

Her whirlwind imbalance matches the wipers.

_Should I flip a coin?_

Rather grimly, she muses to herself.

Her stomach clenches, weaving itself into intricate knots.

From behind, headlights shine on her. Temporarily blind, her tired, watery eyes well shut. It burns.

"Fuck."

The profanity is unlike her. It's harsh. Fills her mouth with an awful rot.

"Fuck!"

She slams her hand into the steering wheel. Her pinky reddens. The horn blares.

They pass her, cruising along this long stretch of nothing.

This feeling inside her chest pounded against ribcage, begging to be let out. When she pulls over, she forgets to turn on her signal. Luckily, she's all alone.

A pressing need for solitude pushes an already torn woman toward extremes.

Vera exits. Leaves the blinkers on and the key still in the ignition. Brown curls escape the tightly wound bun. Loose strands plaster against her delicate face. The miniscule droplets target her. Her heels trudge through the mud and overgrown grass. She stumbles. She wobbles, lacking finesse.

Drawn to the cliffside – Ophelia with her pockets full of burden – overlooks the crashing waves. The frantic beating of her heart resembles a moth dancing closer to illumination. She scratches her throat, overwhelmed by all these sensations. At the collar, her uniform's unbuttoned. Recklessness comes with the territory that does not belong to her.

"I'm better than this."

_But I'm not._

Self-doubt comes creeping in. Infects her like a disease that she has learned to live with.

She hears her heart singing in her ears.

"She can't use me. She can't manipulate me."

An ongoing crisis haunts.

She shivers, drawing her sinewy arms around her chest. Vera wonders what it would be like to drive with Joan to this place. To stand beside her and watch the shore draw in, spellbound by nature's wonders. To catch a glimpse of the tall woman's profile and feel equally spellbound by her immeasurable power. Her grace. Her ethereal beauty.

"What do I want? What am I getting from this?"

Positively soaked, her light jacket clings to her body like a second skin. This time, she cannot forcibly peel the layer from herself.

Vera takes a step back -- away from the mighty rock side that leads to an awful plummet. Below, little whirlpools compose their siren song.

_I don't know. I can't._

Indecision make her legs quiver. Her muscles hardly feel like pillars of support.

Vera, herself, hardly feels like a supportive person.

_I love her._

The howling wind cuts her lips. Shakily, Vera brings her fingers to her mouth, half-expecting there to be an open wound. There's nothing there.

Onto her knees, she screams, bloody and raw. She bruises. Purple and blue-back paint her skin in small, modest blotches. She resembles a water color painting where everything bleeds and blends together.

There's a catharsis in letting it all out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter will lead directly into the next where Vera visits Joan again!


	21. The Whys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is a fine line you dare to cross."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended on posting this chapter a few days back, but life happened. Sorry about that!

> "Dear So-and-So, I'm sorry I came to your party and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing."
> 
> _Little Beast_ – Richard Siken

Soaked to the bone, Vera arrives. Without so much as a word uttered, Governor Bennett enters the ward. Beneath her, a puddle forms. She carries the gloom and grey inside with her. The nurse shoots her a look of sheer disdain, lowering her magazine if only for a moment.

“Sign in,” Nurse Atwood says.

In a zombie-like fashion, she shuffles towards the front desk and reaches for the clipboard that slides out from under the film of protective glass. Hastily, she scribbles her name. Out of tears, she can no longer afford to cry.

The rain has left her permanently cold.

“Do you want a towel?” Atwood asks and it surprises Vera to witness a moment of kindness from a young no one who's already so numb.

She shakes her head. As an automaton, she staggers forward, arms hanging by her sides. Her body's a dead weight. 

Vera ought to tote around a caution sign.

 **DANGER:** messy when emotional.

Vera imagines herself soaked in vinegar. Again.

_Vinegar Tits, Vinegar Tits._

At the memory, she shudders. Drags her heels across the tiled ground.

It's as though Joan knows what she's thinking. She penetrates her thoughts. Cocks her head at a slight angle, an apex predator observing her wounded prey.

"Memory is a funny thing."

Despite the horrible tension that riddles her body, Vera manages to fall lax in the plastic orange chair. Her nametag hangs askew. At first, she ignores her former mentor. Chestnut curls have pulled free from her tightly knotted bun and now stick to her face. The white blouse sticks to her torso under the pretense of a translucent second skin. Through dark eyes, Joan watches her.

Watches her and represses the urge to fix the badge. To run her thumb over ' GOVERNOR. ' Instead, she satisfies herself with thoughts of her name replacing Vera's. It doesn't fill the void. It leaves her starving.

“My, my Vera. You're _dripping_.”

The innuendo's not lost upon her. That smokey voice stirs the embers of her wounded heart and sets fire to something old, something precious, but that's all it seems to be – smoke and mirrors. Vera gives her an exasperated look.

Joan's gaze traces her collarbone, her chest, lingering on the vision of this washed up woman. She sits tall, her palms flat on the table, as though she's laid out her cards in a meticulous fashion. Somehow, Vera hasn't rusted. Her spine's turned to steel since the last time she visited.

"You can't keep doing this to me, Joan."

"Vera, Vera, Vera. Playing the victim doesn't suit you. Not anymore."

Saturated, Vera picks at the collar of her shirt. She doesn't notice how Joan twitches. How her right eye seems to narrow, her sculpted brow quirking. From a glance, it seems like a muscle spasm. In actuality, it bothers the older woman to see her in this state – to see apathy covering up the pain, the vulnerability, the innocence that she once possessed.

Now, she's like every other prisoner around.

Forcibly enslaved by these respective systems, freedom is nowhere in sight.

"I don't like who I'm becoming," she mumbles, her voice willowy.

"Fix it."

The two word parry of a lifetime strikes her protege down.

Vera blinks, her blue eyes wide and watery, akin to sea foam about to evaporate. It feels as if the woman she's admired for so long has just plunged a knife into her side, her shoulder. She grits her teeth, grinds them to the point where you could practically hear that awful sound.

Naturally, she bites.

This hot and cold demeanor takes a toll.

"Have you been taking your meds, Joan?"

There's a note of suspicion. With nothing to lose, she fires away.

"I am what they need me to be, Vera."

Her thin-lipped smile freezes Vera on the spot.

It scares Vera.

This cold detachment unnerves her and procures a horribly festering ache. Sinewy arms encircle her chest. She hugs herself like she's paying tribute to her lost youth, relieving the days where Rita belittled and berated her until she was reduced to a quivering mess that held onto herself in the kitchen corner.

_Emotion leads to mistakes._

This is what Joan reminds herself of when she sees the hurt dilating poor Vera's pupils. She fights her instincts. She quells the urge – this wretched compulsion – to reach out and wipe the drenched, matted locks from Vera's face. To cup that cold, clammy cheek. To issue her condolences no matter how false or genuine they might have been.

For once, Joan's sparkling onyx gaze flickers down to the table: to the blank sheet of paper and her hands. They turn into fists, seemingly only capable of causing human wreckage. The days of gentleness had been a distant murmur. A far off memory that lays with Jianna.

This is how it feels to tear someone apart: to pull the mouse from the sticky glue trap, watching the small animal squeak and writhe.

"You should stop visiting," Joan interjects.

They both try not to wilt.

Vera swears she hears a crack in Joan's voice.

"What?"

"My body has achieved a state of equilibrium, courtesy of this medication, but this lucidity you witness will not last. They call it a chemical imbalance. You should spare yourself the trouble and stop visiting."

In defiance, Vera shakes her head. She's not prepared to tuck her tail between her legs and scurry out the door. Not now. Not this time. She leans forward in her seat; the wrinkles that crease her forehead deepen as a result of the aggravation and stress combined.

“No! I won't, I can't. Not everything is black and white, Joan. I didn't betray you. You were so wrapped up in your head. You can't get rid of me that easily."

She doesn't foresee Vera's defense and it comes on faster than a derailed train.

So, she shuts down.

"Excuses, Vera."

“I hate this control that you have over me,” the once meek woman continues. “When I imagined falling in love, I didn't think it would hurt. It's like these thorns that keep digging into my skin.”

Reddened eyes begin to burn. She feels the salty sting of tears that refuse to come.

Like a fish out of water, Joan opens her mouth and promptly closes it. This is how it feels to drown on land. She inches her chair a few inches further from the table and from Vera by default. She ignores the thrum of her heart strings. She wants to reply, but insecurities stick to the roof of her mouth: _you don't want me; you love the idea of me._ As a means of steeling herself, Joan sinks her nails into the palm of her hand. Crescent moon welts promise to form in the aftermath. The hot, white pain acts as a welcome distraction.

“Vera, are you attempting to win me over with belittling sonnets?”

Joan acts, her voice about as level as the ocean at high tide conquering the remnants of the shore. She needs to be in control. She needs to quell whatever flame that has begun to spark. She attempts to detach from the complexities that have arisen thanks to this tumultuous relationship. This little mouse finds herself stuck on the glue trap that is Joan Ferguson.

Silence befalls them. It's not the end. Vera simply sits there and stares. There's a burning heat in her eyes that borderlines mania mixed with sacrilege. It infuriates Joan. No longer does her pupil cower or bow her head, issuing rushed apologies. She's a radiator oozing a hellish heat that's bound to scald them both.

Determined to pull the reins on this discourse, Joan takes action. An eight by five sheet of loose leaf stands between them. Joan takes the charcoal and strikes a line down the middle. With her index finger, she taps each side. Her blunt nail strikes the surface. The noise produces an echo that resonates through her soul.

"There is a fine line you dare to cross."

Face downcast, Vera reaches out to smudge it. Slowly, she raises her eyes to meet Joan's.

Water droplets shower the sheet. The charcoal bleeds.

"I think... that the lines have begun to blur, Joan."

Now, it is Joan's turn to look unnerved. The makeshift pencil drops from her strong grip. It glistens from the dampness. Vera offers a sad smile that hurts her cheeks.

At home, she tears the paper from the wall.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise you that something good will come this way for all you freakytits lovers. This piece is the slowest orchestration that I've ever mustered by far.


	22. Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One fell swoop acts as a fall from grace. It's more like a plummet, a nose dive, and Vera's falling hard all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone else increasingly nervous about the season five finale? I sure am! Anyway, here's the chapter that many of you have been waiting for!

> “A girl makes mistakes, but was distracted by [her] hand on her cheek.”
> 
> _L'archiviste_ – Laura Moriarity

Come morning, Vera observes the mess she's made. She steps over the shredded wallpaper that litters her floor. She leaves the ribbons of chaos exactly where they are. She imagines Rita Bennett screaming for her to pick up after herself. There's a certain satisfaction in neglecting the ghost of her mother.

She brews herself a cup of tea.

Alone, Vera sits at the head of her dining table. The ceramic mug warms her cool, clammy hands. By the early morning light, a little dormouse sips her tea and reads her paper. Seems that she's made up her mind.

Eerily calm, Governor Bennett drives to the psychiatric ward. She parks in the lot designated for visitors. Today, Atwood doesn't ingest her gossip magazines at a veracious pace. Aware of the change, the nurse looks at her. There's a frown in her eyes that doesn't reach her pouty lips.

"You look better," Atwood says.

Offering a strained smile, Vera doesn't respond.

She writes away her heart and soul that's conveniently accompanied by a timestamp.

"Maybe you should focus on the patients instead of your own looks."

The blonde curtain falls, waves of hair masking the young nurse's face.

Joan sits at the table, either ignoring Vera on purpose or too absorbed into her reading material. For a moment, Vera watches. It's strangely voyeuristic to be displaced. To be the outsider looking in. She imagines herself here in this place of shit and ruin and tears. She sniffles.

Vera sucks in the stale air of this place. Feigning confidence, she struts forward. She stands beside a woman to be flagged down as Joan of Arc incarnate. Somehow, it feels right to be beside Joan – not behind her, not in front of her. She's a loyal consort by the side of an empress: _her_ empress.

“I won't coerce you. I won't persuade you,” Vera begins, but catches herself. Chokes on the glass shards of her words.

With a hand placed upon the plastic chair, her legs spread apart to support her stance. She leans forward, studying that proud profile that has not been broken by the system – only hiding, biding time.

"What if you were to move in with me? After they cleared you."

Joan closes the book. This is the fifth time that she has read _The Bell Jar_. With her hand, she attempts to hide the title. Vera sees this.

"I refuse to be coddled. I am not your mother, Vera."

It stings.

The asp bites and Vera maintains a soft voice, softer eyes, that could easily draw you in. Looking into that watery gaze, Joan feels as though she's drowning. Drowning and she clenches her jaw, but the suffocated sensation remains.

"You've a duty as governor. See to it," Ferguson quips, too tart to handle.

“My duty,” Vera starts. “--is to be here by your side.”

“Hm.”

Joan's gaze hardens when she studies the younger woman's face and her hand that squeezes the chair much too tight. She'd rather see Vera on her knees, begging and groveling for forgiveness. Forgiveness, Joan has come to learn, is a twisted group of vines. Revenge is a far more wholesome dish.

“I just... need to know that you care.”

Their ill-fated dinner replays itself, but neither want the outcome to be the same. The chair slides away from the table. Joan stands, exuding a venerable presence. No matter how small she is, Vera doesn't back away.

"I care. Vera, I do."

Her mouth is drier than cotton. She faults the thick pills that she swallowed in the morning. They're the wrong pills to take; neither doctors nor nurses care.

"Then, show it, Joan."

 **Translation:** _give me something to feel that's real._

Vera doesn't back away, her brows draw together to match the intensity of her stare.

The white gown hangs from Joan's frame. Vera wishes she could change that and marvel at Joan's typical house clothing. This serves as a reminder of how human she is, flesh and bone before her rather than a marble sculpture to admire.

"You need to have faith in me."

Through an echo of the past, Joan reasserts herself, invading any conception of personal space.

"I want to. I really, sincerely want to believe you."

She nods her head in that sad, little way of hers: a lost woman trying to find herself.

These moments equate to walking on thin ice.

"I do care, Vera." Joan repeats.

A broken record can play and still sound pretty.

She cups Vera's cheek. Cradles her jawline. No matter how thick-headed one may be, it's easy to crush that which is fragile. Her father's twisted moral compass is not there to guide Joan and the silence is deafening.

The cacophony of their mutually shared destruction plays harmoniously. Vera's heart thrums within her chest; she is the bird caught in the cage of Joan's grasp, but she doesn't want to leave. Not now, not _ever_.

A dissonance lies between desire and intent. The issue of consent is a muddied mess.

Is it a question or an issue?

It doesn't matter.

Vera looks up, Joan looks down.

She leans in, about to kiss her. In anticipation, a mouse stands on her hindlegs, balancing on the tips of her toes. Even heels cannot bring her closer to a god-like woman.

"Joan--”

Vera mutters, rendered breathless by the confirmation of one's lips. Illuminated by sunlight, her silhouette practically glows. Joan kisses her until her lips are swollen, her mind's a hurricane mess, and her heart goes on aching. The animal within howls for release.

The kiss distracts.

The kiss resuscitates something thought to be dead.

Dragging her thumb down Vera's corded neck, their lips move together, causing a delicious friction. Here in the visiting room, she could choke her. She could make her apologize for setting fire to her life, her chaos theory, her meticulous planning, but it's a long game she plays.

And this kiss doesn't factor into the game.

One fell swoop acts as a fall from grace. It's more like a plummet, a nose dive, and Vera's falling hard all over again.

Vera bends backwards. How vulnerable the spine is. How easy it is to snap flesh and bone and all the ligaments that hold everything together

"Don't fall."

A hand seeks out the small of her back. Keeps her grounded.

Again, Vera reaches out to her savior, tucks a silver strand behind Joan's ear. This time, she is not afraid. Wet, swollen lips part. It feels as though they stand in an isolated unit – a sacred place – away from the patients and patronizing staff. Vera kisses her again, with a bit of a nip.

Their foreheads touch and their eyes flutter shut, the melody of their shortened breath the only thing to serenade them.

This dance twists and turns them so.

 


	23. Bed on Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tongue in mouth, this is how it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a forewarning, this chapter will contain some sexual content. With this chapter, I struggled on the outcome. Did I want this scene to be the cliché that comes with “coded” characters: the illusion of fantasy? I was torn between turning this into a mutually shared dream and reality. I decided to go with the latter and further deviate from canon since this piece is divergent in itself. It's now a soul-crushing reality for two women that are so wrapped up in one another. This chapter is also probably one of my longest. I decided to go with something a bit more metaphorical rather than sexually descriptive; it's something I'd like to leave to the reader's imagination. :)

> “Desire that hollows us out and hollows us out, that kills us and kills us and raises us up and raises us up.”
> 
> _After the Winds_ – Robert Hass

“Seven minutes,” Atwood declares, staring past Vera Bennett, her gaze tracing the door to the cell that's been sealed shut as though it's a tomb promising fool's gold.

Vera looks incredulous. She blinks, unable to comprehend the ludicrous.

“Seven? Ten.”

“I'm doing you a favour,” the patronizing staff insists. _Favour_ , she places emphasis on, sealing her fate as the carbon copy of Linda Miles.

“For your own personal gain,” she quips, disappointed in the way she hands over the wadded money.

_When did I stoop so low?_

Greed sells out. Atwood tucks the mass away. The nurse smiles grimly, the bill pressed against her breast, hidden underneath her brassiere. It might as well be a scarlet letter searing her chest.

“So, pay her back with your love. It's suffocating to watch.”

Vera would laugh at the absurdity of the situation had it not been her own desire that brought her here. These thoughts of her twist into something so obscene.

_–Like a conjugal._

When she first saw that woman in the padded cell, she felt horrified. Then, angry. Now, ruined. Her hand lingers over the handle of the door. There will be no bloody chamber within, merely a tired woman seated on a bed that cannot be called her own.

Neither the orderlies nor the doctor visits her. Today, it's Vera. Vera watching through the sliver of protective glass. Somehow, she manages to raise the curtain. Part one of the final act begins. The door clicks shut behind her.

The woman in the room is not all that far away. Vera stands on the tips of her toes, little shrew that she is. _The Bell Jar_ rests on the nightstand. The letter, written weeks prior, bookmarks the novel. In uncertainty, a crisp corner peeks out from the pages. Vera spies her offering to Joan placed in plain sight. Cast on a warped altar as a silent token of reverence. It stirs something deep inside of her.

In the off-white starchy gown, Joan resembles a phantom. It makes sense to Vera in a round about way – given how haunted they've both become. In introspection, Vera wishes that she could simply erase Joan's suffering. Her heart bleeds too much. She breathes to pass the time.

Joan strikes first. She turns her head to the right, a slight angle that requires little movement and oozes a fluidity that makes Vera envious.

“I warned you not to fall.”

Ruefully, Vera shakes her head.

“It's too late for that.”

There's no camera inside to capture the scene through a voyeuristic lens. She sits down next to Joan whose dark eyes speak a language that Vera cannot translate. It's more lethal that way, but just as beautiful. Vera's hands curl, her knuckles resting on top of her thighs that are clenched together. Her fleeting glance wanders down to the floor before she musters the courage to look at Joan.

“I will **rot** in here.”

Bitter scorn taints her tone. She bites down on the T, hard and fast, to imitate the crushing snap of brittle bones.

“No, I won't let that happen.”

Vera's insistence is endearing and yet, incredibly frustrating to deal with in high doses.

Bemused, Joan simply stares at her, similar to a cat baiting a mouse. Oh, will the analogies ever fucking _end_?

Four walls threaten to cave in on them. In the hallway outside, the flourescent bulbs begin to flicker, sicker than the condition of most patients that are sealed inside the ward. As an afterthought, Vera's teeth catch her bottom lip; she chews on what's already chapped.

The shadows from the room blend with Joan's paleness, forming perfect chiaroscuro. That sickening contrast between light and dark places her former mentor on a pedestal like no other. She is the idol to be worshipped through a stare that invokes wreckage, rewiring, and the painfully unspoken exchange.

Who knows who wants who.

“I don't have long,” Vera confesses to interrupt the quietude. “--I just wanted to be alone with you.”

_Always with you._

An echo of the past plucks a chord. Joan nearly feels the twinge. The disconnect is apparent, her right eye twitching as the only subtext.

Joan struggles to reign. To control the situation to her advantage. A piece of her humanity rubberbands. Snaps. The animal within can never be denied; she lunges. She coils like a viper, strikens when it suits her complicated hierarchy. Their positions shift. On the top again, she cherishes Vera's submissive nature: her inherent vulnerability. Her hands are shackles, encircling Vera's wrists. She hovers above Vera who resembles a butterfly pinned to a corkboard, arms spread like a pair of wings, open for dissection.

“What are you doing to me?”

Beneath her, Vera squirms relentlessly. The interrogation leaves Vera scrubbed raw. Her face reddens to match. The allure lies in the way her lips part.

“Nothing,” she insists.

 _Cui bono:_ who benefits?

She kisses her and Vera tastes like a sliver of hope. Sunshine and fresh rain and a hint of tea. Tongue in mouth, this is how it should be.

Her taste chameleons. Changes. Now she knows what Vera's lips taste like. She uses honey in her tea. Oh, how it lingers, saccharine and divine.

Like communion, it's good to the last drop. She cradles Vera's skull, her crown, that could be so easily crushed beneath her iron grip. The bun acts as a symbol of power, a knot hammering against the back of Vera's head. Craving intimacy, the heat of these passionate kisses render Vera sluggish. Petrified by her own desire, this all-consuming fever procures an insatiable hunger.

The act of giving in imitates an undefinable love: a madness, an unadulterated passion. A ritual between two women resembles a haunted, torturous dance. It's not the most ideal place to house idolatry. Fingertips creep down Joan's spine. Vera whispers, her voice hoarse and her lips swollen from the gusto of such ferverent kisses.

“It's okay. It'll be okay.”

Not even Jianna uttered those words.

That condolence had been a right belonging solely to the Fixer.

Joan stares.

Hard, silent, reflective.

“I have always seen all that you can be, Vera.”

Sucking and biting her neck, much like a predator enjoying its fair share of prey, Joan sinks her teeth into that smooth column of flesh. Pupils dilated, shallow breath, they share the equal effect of the drug that consumes them.

Everything revolves around sex and death.

Neither knew how to engage in proper intimacy.

“Let me see you,” Vera whispers.

A hesitation dictates Joan's next response across the chess board. She falters. Ceases her malignance that strings together a slow burn. Reluctantly, the beast obeys. A raven curtain threatens to fall down upon Vera, the hair silken to the touch tickles her cheeks. Joan crawls off.

This, too, will fall apart.

Joan kneels, as though the Eucharist awaits her acceptance, but faith is just a marketable trend. Cautiously, Joan lays back on the bed, her dark eyes focused on the ceiling; she spreads her legs to make room for the smaller woman between them. Powerful thighs clench. Her fists work the thin, scratchy sheets. The cracks littering the ceiling lluminate such tedious imperfection.

This is the most vulnerable she has allowed herself to be.

Vera kisses the corner of her mouth.

“Enjoy this.”

Her promise, her oath stands at hand.

She nearly says ' _guv'na_ ' and manages to stop herself before the car crash makes itself known.

It sounds like Vera, but it isn't. Couldn't be. Her Vera isn't so self-assured. However, it is Vera here, flesh and bone, reaching for what's been lost to the abyss.

She shouldn't dream of this. She shouldn't dream of Vera in this way at _all_.

Enthusiasm makes up for inexperience. The gown lifts. Vera inches down the wilted mattress, placing her reverent kisses down Joan's legs, Joan's thighs, Joan's being. Her mouth is wet from tasting Joan. In the wake of her actions, Vera produces a tenderness. It's real. Nothing about this moment can yield a fabrication.

How did Vera learn all this?

Did her instruction – her rewiring – lead to this crooked, narrow path?

It's too much.

It's not her home. It's not her room. It's her cell.

“Not here,” Joan admits and unfolds a small part of her vulnerable self.

Joan's long fingers pry the bobbypins loose from Vera's wirey hair. One by one, they come out. She lines them in a row on the nightstand, on top of the book, on top of everything unspoken. Her wavy hair shakes free.

Her groomed debutante respects her wishes.

Vera stops, her jaw tight, her blue eyes wandering up to the face of her mentor who appears ragged, worn, conflicted. The strange mix foretells a great deal about the layers of humanity that had been locked away in Pandora's neat, little box.

“What do you want?” Vera asks quietly, fearful of the rejection that's bound to come.

And it doesn't.

“I wish to--”

She falters, combs through her train wreck thoughts carefully.

The unspoken never comes.

_Love you._

“–possess you."

Vera's smile is lost to the bed, her gaze downcast. It tugs at her cheeks. Before Joan, she already knew hollowness. After Joan, she knew completion.

“Oh, Joan. You already have.”

Flattery speaks to the Devil in the room. A smirk on Joan's lips paints a picture of the authentic governor in the room. Again, they change positions on this uncomfortable mattress. They writhe under the pretense of a furnace room lullaby.

With a vigor, her thumb strokes the swell of Vera's bony hip. Joan maintains eye contact, a crucial part of this fated condition. Vera's trousers slide down her toned legs. Those fingers caliberate her, penetrate her, creep underneath the bridge of her panties. Joan plays her for the violin that she's always been.

There's no time to remove her top, to unfasten her bra, to worship what's been right in front of her all along.

Her arms form a bird cage, encompassing Joan's neck.

It's uncertain who cages who.

With a fluid grace, Vera moves her hips. Up, down. Up, down. It's mechanically vanilla, but manages to satisfy them both.

Joan spreads her fingers inside of Vera – Vera who's already wet, already panting, already moaning her moonlight sonata.

Control regained, the impression of Joan's teeth leave a crescent moon welt embedded in Vera's throat.

The sky falls when, really, it's Vera who shudders beneath the weight. She grinds her hips onto Joan's thigh, her face a hot and sweaty mess. The mantra of broken, incomplete sentence. A strangled cry of "I want, I want, I want" which simply translates to: ' _I want you._ '

With a gasp, she cums.

She falls apart so beautifully.

Despite the messiness.

Breathless, deathless, Vera collapses. Almost clumsily, Joan tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She traces the curvature of sex-sated lips.

Implores with a single command.

“Stay.”

And Vera does.

Complacent, she lies next to this woman. Like two halves to a whole, they lay side by side. Joan becomes a victim to restless sleeve.

Fifteen minutes have passed when Atwood gently raps the door.

Vera fixes herself hastily. Buttons her trousers. Fixes her top. Tucks in the sleeping form. Leaves behind the bobby pins.

Hours later, she wakes up. Daylight spans across her back. Vera's perfume clings to the sheets, the railrod thin pillow, even her hair.

In solitude, she rises.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, this fic is coming to an end! The thirtieth chapter will be the last. In doing so, I'll have more time for some other fics -- hopefully, a few multi-chapter ones.


	24. Crazy Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a knack for burning bridges, she banishes the vulnerabilities exposed just a few nights prior. Vera's jaw drops. Unhinges. She resembles a rabbit in front of a car's fender, afraid of the spotlight that shines and blinds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this update came sooner than I anticipated. I apologize for the brevity of this chapter.

> “People made arguments. They had reasons for their appetites.”
> 
> _Drift and Vapor (Surf, Faintly)_ – Robert Hass

As long as humanity stands, there will be conflict.

In Cell Block H, the camera's been turned long after the screws have the decency to pay attention to the inmates. Under the veil of anonymity, Birdsworth lags. One woman attacks another, because of drugs. Because of an impending threat. Because of malevolent distrust.

It tears down Vera's resolve.

Makes her tired, but not this time.

Unlike previous governors (she likes to think: thought imbues her with a waifish cockiness), she listens to them each prisoner articulate their concerns – albeit, she listens with raised brows and a strained smile.

Determining the fate of Jenkins, Birdsworth, and Doyle will come another day.

For the evening, Vera locks up. The ring of keys forms a whimsical rhythm: a jingle worthy of baiting a curious cat. She hears the persistent click of resident forensic psychologist Bridget Westfall's heels before she sets her sight on the colorful blazer and tasteful skirt to match.

“You seem... different,” Bridget observes.

On occasion, they've indulged in a debriefing session intrinsically their own. Over a glass or wine or two. Sometimes, Pinot. Other times, Sauvignon. It never goes any further. In the purest sense, it remains a friendship called camraderie. Tonight, both women have plans; they intend to go about their lives beyond these concrete walls.

“Well." A tilt of her head. A half-smile. A rosy hue tints her cheeks. She banishes the expression. Replaces the look with a stab at strict professionalism. "Nothing's the same."

It's easier to dismiss (translation: to deflect) than it is to explain.

Dr. Westfall studies the Governor, as though she's trying to decode her. Her inferences remain under tight wraps, dying on the mirthful expression she executes. To be truthful, Vera finds herself relieved. She wishes the blonde a good night and makes her departure down the empty corridor.

Hours before her next designated shift, Vera arrives at the ward.

Atwood doesn't look up from her colorful magazine, flicking through the pages, studying the pictures rather than the vain articles written in an alotted font.

“She's been waiting for you.”

Vera signs her name. She picks at the pills that collect on her grey sweater. Suddenly, she wishes that she wore something a tad more... _decent_.

At last, the prodigal one returns.

Joan thinks about how her warm her body felt in that sordid embrace, how it felt to be so connected, but it was neither the right time nor the right place.

It doesn't pay to be alone in here.

Unable to withstand the distance at the round table, the brunette pulls out her chair and manuevers it closer to Joan. Next to Joan.

In response, Joan's jaw slides from side to side. Her nostrils flare.

Gone is the image of the submissive woman. She begins to articulate her own thoughts and ideals, no matter how ludricrous they may be. It's wishful thinking that compels Vera to blurt out the risqué.

“Let's run away together.”

Joan simply looks at her.

“You cannot shirk your _responsibility_."

A distraction presents itself. The doctor walks by, his tail tucked between his legs. Beneath the bright lights, his balding head glimmers. A target may as well be painted on the back of his skull, bleeding red. If only it was. He seems afraid. He should be.

He'll burn; his career will dissolve to ash and dust.

Give it time: she'll win and get her Roman revenge.

Finally, Vera breaks the silence.

“What is it, Joan?”

Joan scrutinizes Vera with the tenacity of her stare.

Somewhere along the way, Joan has derailed the conquest. She had fed into this reinvention of her modest, meek Vera. The mold breaks to reveal the new cast of Vera

_With the state she's in, will she remember?_

That resilient nagging of self-doubt gnaws at Vera's heart strings. She learns forward, her hands on the table that has witnessed a great deal.

“--Nothing,” Ferguson concludes. The derision for one's decision delivers a low blow. “I was merely transfixed by your impeccable desire to heal and save. Consider me _cured_.”

With a knack for burning bridges, she banishes the vulnerabilities exposed just a few nights prior. Vera's jaw drops. Unhinges. She resembles a rabbit in front of a car's fender, afraid of the spotlight that shines and blinds.

“You can't do this,” Vera argues weakly. “I'm not the same as you.”

Underneath the table, her knees shake. They hit against one another. Her legs fail to cooperate.

“On the contrary,” Joan drawls whilst leading the conversation. “Your humanity prevails again; you're better."

She produces nonsensical solutions that yield no results.

They talk in circles, venturing from one circle of Hell to another.

Vera looks haunted.

Joan thinks about the pills she's to swallow, the therapy that she's forced to digest, and the burns that have gradually begun to heal.

“Before you go, Vera.”

Joan holds a folded piece of paper in between her fingers. Lazily, the letter wags before freezing in suspended animation.

Saying nothing, the smaller woman grabs for it. Her fingers touch Joan's. She withdraws, leaving the chair pushed out.

It's easier this way.

To curb the feeling.

At home, Vera feeds Frances a flake or two. Somehow, he manages to stay alive – much like herself.

 


	25. Fang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vera reads Joan's letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this letter was far more difficult than I anticipated. Yikes!

> "You're reading them again.
> 
> The ones you didn't burn.
> 
> You press them to your lips,
> 
> My pages of concern."
> 
> _The Letters_ – Leonard Cohen

At night, Vera becomes a creature of habit. She performs her rituals in hopes of keeping some monster at bay. Her childhood home has undergone a metamorphosis that matches the innermost parts of herself: everything is grey and blue. Without Rita Bennett present, a reverent silence befalls the Bennett estate. Habit compels her to check the doors, the locks, and underneath her bed. Old habits are harder to break – her mother's conditioning? Even harder.

In a grey t-shirt with slacks to match, she wanders her maze of a home, checking for any wolves at her door. There aren't any, but that doesn't make her any less afraid.

There is a simplicity to Vera that only recently has become complex.

Before slipping into her house robe, she pulls her hair into a loose ponytail. She brews a hot cup of tea that she promptly ignores. The kettle screams for her attention. As always, her thoughts loom elsewhere. Her worries are taken out on her bottom lip which she gnaws on. Her brows draw together, her face a mask of concern.

As a safety precaution, she bolts her windows shut. Her fingers leave smudges on the glass. With her mind elsewhere, Vera goes through the motions of fixing herself a hot cuppa. She abandons the mug on the counter where the steam dares to travel up, disappearing altogether.

Her bare feet pad across the wooden floor. In the master bedroom, she seeks solace. Vera sits on the bed that's too big for someone so lonely. Rather meticulously, she checks under her bed one last time.

Rita Bennett screams loudly in her ears. Her ghost clings to the impressionable Vera.

_You're an unlovable coward, Vera. One of these days, the Devil will pull you under your bed and no one will save you. You'll die alone._

She swallows, the tight constriction of her throat proving it to be a difficult feat. Vera cocoons herself in her robin's egg blue sheets. She nestles there where it's safe. Where it's warm.

A trembling hand reaches for the letter. She cannot control the way her fingers quiver. Call it nerves, call it anxiety; it always has a name to match the face.

The paper itself has been neatly folded into proportional segments. With great care, Vera unwraps the gift and wonders exactly how generous it may be.

A pencil was deemed to be too "dangerous." A slab of charcoal must have sufficed. The charcoal -- messy and thick -- dictates the quality of the writing. Fragments of Joan's elegant script, her slanted cursive, remains.

Her eyes scan the page.

It reads as followed:

_If you expect a happy ending, you should not._

_Bravo, my dear. You've surpassed me. Not in intellect, but your precious humanity. Your bleeding heart. Do not become me. Do not mourn for the semblance of the woman that you see. Your eyes are far too telling._

_I am aware of your desires, Vera, perhaps more so than your own understanding. You've dreamt of this, haven't you? A home shared by two, a unity of body and mind. Heart and soul._

_After all this time, you must feel unworthy to be graced by my presence. Perhaps, you are. I mentored you. I trusted you. And how did you respond, hm?_

_You have stalled my plans, thwarted my intentions._

_For the entirety of my life, I have prided myself on standing alone. Not a single entity has managed to strike down my guard. Save for one._

_Now two._

_You have donned your rapier, struck me in the back, and cast me down._

_You have me. Is this what you wanted?_

“Not in this way,” Vera answers aloud.

The ebb and flow of Joan's prose continues with as much magnitude as the tide that consumes the shore.

_Understand that all that I do is in the name of the greater good. A matter of perspective casts false judgment. No story is free of bias._

Her thumb traces every loop and curve.

_The key to your inner peace lies within me. Freeing me will free you._

Riddles, riddles, riddles.

It doesn't make sense.

Her mouth runs dry.

It seems that Joan Ferguson's time at Sinclair is now relative.

Vera wonders if Joan seeks her assistance in escaping the limbo that is the ward. She hopes that isn't the case. Conflicted, the subject drops and she reads on.

_In solitude, I have... coveted the hidden language buried within song. Music has been my liberation. I found my freedom from a militaristic regime through the melody and allowed myself do be carried away by the overture. In your letter, you shared a song. Now, it is my turn._

Recorded from memory, copied sheet music accompanies the aforementioned paragraph. Vera's eyes cannot decipher the stanzas, the notes, or the lines that mark the page. Careful deduction, courtesy of the internet, leads Vera to deduce that Joan has included Franz List's _Consolations_.

For Joan, there exists a hidden meaning.

This time, Vera wonders what it may entail.

_For your own benefit, trust in me. Work beside me, not against me._

From her trembling grip, the paper now suffers from the affliction of a few wrinkles. She reads silently, with her mouth open, as though she can hear Joan speaking to her rather than scrawling out the message.

Smudges litter the bottom of the page. Was it hesitation? Rage and ruin? Vera wouldn't know. She couldn't tap into the dark corridors of Joan's mind, but she tried for her heart.

_Together, we were perfect. We can still be that way._

_I care, Vera._

_Never forgive me, never forget me._

She reads the letter again.

And again.

And again.

 


	26. After the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's better to say nothing when someone is hurting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, another day. I'll admit that I'm a little sad to see this fic near it's end, but I will warn you all: the ending may not be the happiest!

> "Some vertical gesture, then, the way that anger or desire can rip a life apart."
> 
> _Time and Materials_ – Robert Hass

Still frugal with her money, Governor Bennett exits her cheap, little car. Traces of mud splash across the compact skeleton; it's in desperate need of a washing, but Vera neither has the time nor care to pour into the simple act.

Across the lot, Will Jackson parks his bike in the allotted lines. His helmet nestles underneath the crook of his arm. The leather of his jacket creases when he moves, the plethora of belts hitting his hip, his trousers, the open wind.

“Vera, can we chat for a moment?”

She holds the transparent bag full of her personal belongings close to her chest. Her intimacy's put on display. Like the case with her tender heart, she cannot try to hide it.

There's a curt nod on her behalf. Together, they walk towards Wentworth's entrance. Wentworth looms over them. As oppressive as the prison is for the women, it traps the screws too. The staff cutbacks begin to bite. They shuffle forward, tired and worn cogs in a machine.

The sky's bluer than a body submerged underwater. To combat the sun's glare, she squints. Tiny crow's feet form, apparent of a life lived well albeit questionably so.

“From day one, Proctor's had it out for me. She's planning something. I can feel it.”

He tries to be a good man.

Like most – like Vera – he tries too bloody _hard_.

“Will... Don't provoke her. Please. Should it take a direction for the worst, I may have to file a report and send it to the board. Don't make me take such drastic measures.”

Vera surprises herself with how exasperated she sounds.

He drops the subject.

With the way his face scrunches, she can tell that he debates on fighting this. On fighting her. He lowers his shoulders and attempts to start the day on a positive note.

It doesn't work out.

Miles works the front desk. Her thin lips curve into a half-smirk; she resembles a fox that marched out of the coop, scott-free. Vera wonders how much money's weighing her pockets down this time.

Jackson and Bennett go through the motions of security.

Their phones are left aside, their belongings examined.

When Will strikes with his thoughtful observation, Vera stands motionless in the metal detector. Nothing beeps. She hears the clock ticking on the wall, a pen clicking in the nearby distance.

“You seem... elsewhere,” Mr. Jackson points out.

Disrupts the silence between them.

She didn't expect Will to be so... observant. So astute. Ferguson was wrong about him: not everything came down to working out and juicing up.

“I have a lot on my mind, Will.”

He stares, long and hard. She challenges his well worn expression.

“If you ever need to talk, Vera... I'll listen.”

“Thank you,” slithers out as an automated reflex, akin to a beep on the answering machine after a recited message. “But we've work to do. I can only disappoint Director Channing so much.”

She leaves him at the prison entrance.

She doesn't want to see the pity in his eyes.

For the remainder of the day, Vera's mind revolves around Will's words and Joan's letter. They exist together in a centrifuge, blending until she's unable to distinguish the two.

Work is work.

Nothing else can explain the motions of monotony.

At visiting hours, Vera wears her hair down. Pulls out the knot that hammers against her skull. She hides her body – that is neither fragile nor weak – in the confines of an pea coat. Still, inside the hospital, she feels cold. The sterility reminds Vera of hospice care: a notion she once entertained for her ill mother.

“Here's the entertainer,” the nurse quips. Today she wears more makeup. Too much foundation. It doesn't match her tone.

Something's off.

Vera thinks back to the time where Rita berated her for trying blush just once. Her stomach churns. Nauseous at the memory, she signs the clipboard and drops the pen. It's better to say nothing when someone is hurting.

She walks to the center of the room where her whole world now resides.

As an open invitation, the board sits on the table. Resigned, Vera takes a seat. Her vision ventures down to the chessboard, if only for a moment before studying Joan's face, her hand precariously raised above a single piece: ivory, not black.

All the pieces are lined up on the board, little soldiers standing in position, waiting to strike.

For a moment, Vera's eyes skirt down to the white, standardized shoes under the table.

“Your move.”

A statement comes across as a demand. An order. An echo of once was for poetry's sake.

“I don't know **how** to play,” Vera admits in earnest.

The sixty-four squares form a pattern that Governor Bennett is unable to recognize within herself.

“Ah, I think you do,” Joan drawls, studying Vera, peeling her ribcage from her heart.

A look says everything.

The brunette scowls.

“I don't _want_ to play, Joan.”

The correction stands.  
  


In response, Joan lifts a single brow. Her hair, near abysmal save for the silver curtain, frames her pale face. _Humor me_ , the expression seems to say.

“Try,” she commands despite the lack of armor: her uniform, her crowns, her meticulous bun.

A puppet grabs a standard dark pawn and moves the rook forward. A few turns will pass and that same rook will regress – Vera pulls it back.

Joan smiles, thin and slight, but recognizable given the upright curve.

The ivory bishop travels diagonally, inching closer towards Vera's side.

Back to the way it should be.

Back to the way it was _supposed_ to be.

Joan wins by castling.

Vera doesn't demand an explanation. She's tiredly watching Joan reset the pieces, spinning around the board so that now Vera wields the ivory pieces.

“Your letter--” Vera knows neither where to begin or end. She handles the topic with little tact. A lack of finesse gets her nowhere.

“Have you come to merely gloat or probe deeper, Vera?”

Miss Bennett wrenches her hands. She's full of nervous habits. Temptation nearly compels her to snap the affirmation band around her wrist, as though she's placed before an audience, ready to fail a speech, and maybe she is with the way Joan stares.

“... I wanted to say thank you. For writing it.”

The result does not yield the intended effect.

Joan expects distance, not a breach of space.

Momentarily, her mouth falls open. Joan catches herself.

Her palms flatten on top of the round table. The knight's not in the proper court; she's not armed with her atypical armor. Long fingers flex, each spreading apart, as though she's denying the gratitude. The sympathy. The care.

“You understand, then. What I aim to accomplish. What you... _hinder_ me from doing.”

Vera sighs. An arm spans across the length of the table. Her sleeve knocks the queen from the board. The piece rolls away. Lingers on the edge.

A mouse's paw reaches out to touch the once impervious Joan Ferguson.

Seated in this vacant space, Joan seems smaller.

Less severe.

That's what pain will do to you should you fall to the ploy of emotions.

 _Never again,_ she tells herself, but allows for Vera's hand to settle on top of hers. It's a feather light squeeze.

“You've done terrible things. You know it, I know it. That doesn't mean you deserve... this.” Vera searches for the right words, the right speech, the right thing. “I just-- I can't keep having you do this to me.”

“And what, pray tell, have I done to you?”

_Everything._

She doesn't need to ask the question, not when she knows how this story will go.

How the game is played.

Rather than a checkmate, it's a stalemate this time.

Her smile cracks–

–but whose is it?

 


	27. Hyper Oz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a postcard in Vera's hands. She hands it over like a sacrifice, but you can only bargain your heart so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half a bottle of Shiraz later and this chapter is out... Aha... Oops.

> "Something stays. This way we cannot have comes alive, because we cannot have it."
> 
> _Art and Life_ \-- Robert Hass

For patient Joan Ferguson, the monotony of routine cannot seem to break itself. Come mid-afternoon, a timeless classic plays on the dancing screen. She sits in the rigid, plastic chair that should be her rightful throne in the Governor's office. It's not. Instead, _The Wizard of Oz_ makes a feature here in the ward. The projector hums, moans, akin to a dying horse on its last leg. The film is cut short, much to the dismay of many. This time, Dorothy doesn't wake up in Oz.

Joan finds herself relieved: having to sit through the film means sinking deeper into the recesses of her mind.

Her vacant stare wanders to the door. Her exit strategy is in sight.

_When?_

That remains the delicious question.

"Visitor for you," an orderly says and interrupts her rapid fire thoughts that have turned sluggish and grey. "Seems she's early."

Without a proper fight, without the compulsion to control, Joan follows and it's a most peculiar notion.

In the vast hallway that leads to nowhere, a crooked man bumps shoulders with her. He barely reaches her height, having been dwarfed by cocaine and numerous aiments that are just another misdiagnosis.

"Witch," that same patient spits under their breath.

She delivers a sharp, cutting look. The man, gaunt and wrinkled like a piece of used leather, shrivels even more.

In the visitation room, she doesn't wander towards Vera. Not immediately. It will be on her own accord. On her own terms.

In this den, Joan is **not** a lioness, but a caged tiger, pacing 'round the room.

_Think, think, think._

But _oh!_ It's so difficult to think through the insufferable haze.

She curses herself.

Curses her predictament.

Curses the doctor for reteaching her how to _feel_.

Awaiting compliance, Vera sits at the opposite end of the round table. Her stormy eyes shimmer, as though she's on the constant verge of tears; yet, there's a hardened glint to them. Jewels don't fracture so easily.

On her own terms, Joan comes forward. Abruptly, Vera stands. Her brows draw together in the way that implicates her tumultuous thoughts that attack her mind and sense of self. Bolder than the Robber Bride, she kisses Joan on the lips.

At first, her strong arms resemble trunks, grounded by the medicinal pull that acts as a gravitational center.

Joan wants to give in: to succumb to such a passionate stance.

War is an art so seldom won.

Vera pleads with her.

Betrayal is an act that doesn't allow them to forgive and forget, but to unite in a twisted way as they are today.

"Stop it! Stop doing this, Joan."

She hardly sounds like herself these days, hoarse and tired and begging for simpler times.

"I am... incapable of caring in the way that you would like me to."

Normally of sharp wit, the rebuttal comes across as sluggish. Stunted.

Her hand knots into the front of that hideous, white gown.

The affection comes off as this unprecedented thing. With great hesitance, her fingertips graze Vera's cheek. Her arm feels heavy, her tongue dead in her mouth.

How easily swayed she is by the mere promise of affection.

Vera's chest heaves. The air in her lungs threatens to detonate her fragile, foolish frame.

“You should have let me into your heart,” Vera lays down the crushing blow, her voice soft and pleading, gaze searching for something that will never come.

Not like this.

_I did._

_I did and this is where it brought me._

Joan finds herself undeserving of this tenderness.

This altruistic following that will undoubtedly lead her deputy to the clifside.

In a plaintive decree, Vera Bennett is neither the best nor the worst.

She simply is.

She _is_ and somehow, she manages to worm her way underneath Joan's thick, elastic skin.

"I cannot allow myself to be vulnerable--"

Hand out, the response imitates a warning. A stop sign. A hazard light that's blinking, flashing, urging Vera to turn away from the wreck.

_I don't want you to see me in this light._

Long, pale fingers trace the ghostly hollow of Vera's collarbone underneath the impression of her jacket. Despite herself, the little mouse shudders. Shivers. Falls back into her seat – her rightful place where she belongs.

They sit down, separated by a table, by an inanimate object that acts as a border.

"I'm sorry for being so angry. It hurts. It just hurts so much; I feel like I'm choking on all of this."

Vera spews out her words in a frazzled mess. That's what she is, coming off too strong, resurrecting the chaos that was the dimly lit dinner that ended in her early departure.

From her jacket, she procures a memento. A postcard features a work of art. It hangs in the National Gallery of Victoria, now immortalized on a postcard. _Awakening_ by Kim Hoe features a bird in four panels. A combination of ink and water colors splash across each canvas. The bird starts on the branch and ends on the ground. The twig collapses. The bird continues to stand.

In silence, Joan accepts the meager offering that may as well be a sacrifice in her name. Through narrowed eyes and a razor-sharp intellect muddied by tranquilizers, she studies the piece.

"I don't understand it, but I thought you'd appreciate art," Vera interrupts.

Manages to creep in.

"... I do."

There's some hesitation in the response, an indication of her unfamiliarity with such crippling vulnerability.

Beneath the snapped twig, her thumb caresses the lonesome bird on the ground.

There's a message inscribed on the back: _you know how to fly; this isn't temporary._

One of them remembers what it mean to forgive.

Studying Joan's profile, Vera realizes just how vulnerable she looks. She drags her teeth across her lips. Chews on them in her frustration, in her constant duress. It's a tiny, habitable form of self-destruction.

Her doctor – pathetic, sick man that he is – manages to linger in the corridor of her mind

_Would you like to feel empathy, Joan?_

_I'd... like that._

Watching Vera is like staring on from behind the veil of protective custody glass. She tilts her head at some angle, her hair streaming over her shoulders.

Vera masks her face, fingers running down the slope of her button nose.

Her brokenness presents an art in itself.

“I have to get going,” Vera murmurs, looking tired and worn.

Hopeless, jaded, fucking wasted.

She pushes the chair away from the table.

“I'll be back.”

“You will,” Joan responds.

It stands as neither a statement nor a question.

Working the nightshift, the women prepare themselves for bed. They wear fragments of their personality: pajamas that they're allowed rather than the prison issues uniforms. It's the screws gift to them, no matter how the irony has lost itself along the way.

Vera, in the midst of habit, rubs her swollen eyelids. She stands in the hallway where inmates, like ants, retreat to the sweet sugar that is their bed.

"Governor Bennett?" Inmate Maxine Conway politely interrupts her weary nothingness., lingering in the corridor of Cell Block H. "You once told me that to stop hurting, there are some things you need to do for yourself. Make the right choice, won't you?"

It comes as strangely unsolicited.

Yet, it's the validation she craves.

What she hopes for after all this time.

"... thank you, Miss Conway."

She keeps walking, her hand plastered over her coral mouth. It contains the shriek that threatens to come out.

Dies as a wounded gasp.

 


	28. Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's coming to an end: the consumption of the pills, the visits, the unspoken thing between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many months later and after a high word count, I'm nearly done with this. Not sure how I feel about it. Some things I would change, but some I wouldn't. The ending, you could say, is being dragged out. It started with Vera's sworn loyalty -- her faithfulness -- in coming to visit Joan, caring for her, bringing her gifts, etc. Those acts have "reawakened" her and triggered this monumental push/pull that you now bear witness to.

 

> "From everything, a little remained.
> 
> From my fear. From your disgust.
> 
> From stifled cries. From the rose, a little remained."
> 
> _Residue_ \- Carlos Drummad de Andrade

It's 6:15 AM and a patient lays awake on a cardboard bed that might as well be a tomb. This room buries her alive. Joan stares at the cracks in the ceiling. Hairline fractures mimicking the way bone shatters; how brittle the bones, how frail the body to match her questionable state of mind.

Recently, she put in a request to switch rooms. Those irritating, little blemishes grated on her. Chips of plaster flutter down, down, down -- only to pile in a small mound.

No one cleans it.

No one has catered to her demands.

It drives her up a wall.

She lays awake, sleepless, thinking through the pill addled haze.

Thinking, plotting, planning.

Or perhaps thinking about nothing at all.

The postcard sits on the table, straight and even.

Come the official morning when the orderlies announce that it’s time to “wake up,” she shuffles into the rec room, a numbed soldier like the rest.

It could be a ruse, it could be an illusion.

Whatever the case may be, she keeps her cards close to her chest.

"What will you do when she stops visiting you?" Nurse Atwood asks, holding the shot glass of pills.

Glass is a logical fallacy. It's a small paper cup that holds a chemical fix to nullify this sensation.

She takes them, but doesn't swallow. 

It's the one part Joan _hadn't_ thought through.

She assembles chess board and arranges the pawns accordingly. With her fingers steepled together, she peers at the worn, hand-me-down set. Joan reaches for the queen, rolling the piece in the palm of her hand. Here, she feels every groove and ridge.

The pieces no longer go where they belong.

Later in the day, Vera appears with her jacket draped across her arm. Prior to entering the visitation room, she glances down the hall. Old urine coats the walls. A stain indicates sprayed bleach to eradicate the evidence. Some things don't fade.

The nurse behind the glass finishes reapplying her lipstick. Red on her mouth appears waxen. There’s far too many layers caked on.

Vera’s brows furrow, her scrutiny made palpable.

"Do you actually care about what happens here, Nurse Atwood? Do you genuinely believe in these patients or do you just quote what you were taught to say?"

She takes out her frustration not on a single person, but an institution.

"I'm paid to be here; you're not," the blonde woman quips. Her tone sounds as though she’s just woken up; it’s the dress of apathy she wears rather than that standard, white uniform.

Shaking her head, Vera walks away.

 "I taught myself to care less. Maybe you should take a number," she calls out to Vera.

She turns to the woman in the center of the room. None of the other patients matter. Not to her. Her diamond eyes catch a sinister stain on the ceiling. A patch of mold festers and grows. Health regulations fail this place. Vera wonders if Joan has noticed or chosen to neglect the disfigurement of the edifice. The old Joan wouldn’t, the old Joan would burn this place to the ground.

Fucking hilarious.

Perpetual exhaustion floors them both. From behind, she allows her hand to hover. Her stare catches the midnight curtain that is Joan’s hair, threaded with grey. Vera's hand coasts along the curve of her back. 

“I didn’t think you would come,” Joan announces.

From the touch, she nearly shrinks. Muscles grow tense. Joints lock into place. She steels herself to guard herself from the crushing blow to follow.

The innuendo is not lost upon Vera.

“I should hate you,” she says in a soft voice, barely audible amongst the white noise of the room. “Seeing you like this… hurts.”

She swallows her sorrow.

Feeling too much is her fault.

 Across from Joan, she takes her seat. She ignores the chessboard and all the pawns that Joan has strategically laid out. The knight is cast aside; there’s no time to wonder who that may be.

 With the tenderness of a lover, Joan caresses the ivory queen.

"If you wanted some dark savior, then you are sorely mistaken. I am sorry that I cannot live up to your foolish fantasies. Try as you might, you cannot _fix_ me."

Vera exhales. Inhales. Practices her breathing exercises.

The first few buttons of her uniform are undone, exposing the hollow of her throat. Joan notices this. A part of her—call it the animal within—wants to see the pale skin bruise and collect a litany of marks. She, too, swallows.

"You failed me, Vera."

So this is the mighty start of pulling herself together again.

You have to ask: who’s pulling who?

In succession, a fingernail taps the table.

Tap, tap, tap.

"Your governorship is a temporary fixture. You know it, I know it. Why bother?" 

In absolute silence, she listens. Takes the heat.

The affirmation band bites into her skin. She plucks at this thing wrapped around her wrist, cutting off her circulation, and procuring an indentation. A mark to match the one that Joan has left upon her core being. Her innermost self. Her sad, little soul.

"You let me inside you," Joan continues whilst doing this thing that she does.

A ghostly smirk twists her lips.

It makes Vera’s stomach drop.

Vera's fist hits the table.

This is what it means to be _fucked_ over.

The repetition of the fact doesn't take away from the act.

"Joan," Vera starts and her name sounds like rapid gunfire: sudden, sharp, and blazing hot. "This is a two-way street. Trust is built up by opening up to a person. Not by closing yourself off. That's not how being a person works."

Again, Vera worms her way under Joan's skin.

Joan twitches.

"I know you think of yourself as some unfeeling machine, but you're not. I never wanted to hurt you."

Wrists twist. Her hands come apart. Now, the mentee mimics her mentor.

Again and again, there’s that foreign word: _hurt_.

Joan ignores the dull ache in her chest, averting from the intense stare on Vera’s part. The intensity is coupled with an anger that never vanished; it laid in wait on the backburner.

"I don't want it to end in this way."

Joan's lips curl.

"Pray tell, how do you envision this-" her hand waves in a listless circle "-to **end**?"

_I, alone, will write my fate. I will not have you condemn me, Vera._

“I don’t know,” Vera responds in exasperation.

 On the contrary, she does know – she simply doesn’t want to say it.

 A mouse would rather scurry from the face of danger than to tolerate the mighty swipe of the cat’s paw.

When she goes to stand, the chair’s legs scrape. Looking rather ragged, she puts her coat back on.

“Wait—”

Joan reaches out though she remains impervious on her plastic throne.

“If you’re going to tell me anything else, then stand up.”

Vera issues her demand with a sigh of resignation. There’s a glimpse of her budding governorship in that command. Joan finds herself obeying. Just this once.

Her wrist dangles mid-air, index finger reaching out to Vera’s visage. It could be the Hand of God, for all she knew, but she would still feel burned by the divinity of it.

Vera grits her teeth, wraps her arm around a barbed wire woman.

All ice, Joan freezes. Vera squeezes harder and it’s a boa constrictor hold. Joan reminisces, her mind drifting back to Jianna’s softness: the beautiful way in which she sobbed in Joan’s lap and held her. Made her feel human.

Vera, too, awakens her humanity and it feels so utterly foreign.

Gradually, cautiously, she reciprocates. Wraps her arms around Vera. The lightest of touches tends to be the most suffocating.

It’s a hug: one that itches and begs for forgiveness.

"You're looking for a hero," Joan whispers.

Her chin rests on Vera’s crown.

"No, Joan,” she protests. “I saved myself."

_But I can’t save you, too._

At home, Frances floats upside down.

She gives him a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Symbolism, metaphors, and allegories... These are a few of my favorite things. I don't recall if I said this before, but Francis is named as a homage to Frank Underwood. ;)


	29. 16 Psyche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold the modern rendition of The Last Supper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be sure to read chapter twenty-eight prior to reading this one as I've only updated them a day apart!

> "(I know you are the one pierced through, I'm the one bent low beside you, trying to peer into your eyes)."
> 
> _The Distribution of Happiness_ – Robert Hass 

After the stress and turmoil of work, Vera looks forward to these small, treasured moments between Dr. Bridget Westfall and herself. Once a month, they gather and drink their sorrows away. The bottle of Pinot Noir stands between them, neither too sweet nor too dry. It’s just right. As the hostess of the night, Bridget tops off their glasses. The pour, in itself, is a gracious one. Nearly filled to the brim, they drink until they’re bubbly. Until they pour their hearts out.

They make idle chit chat in Dr. Westfall's kitchen. 

"Do you have any Liszt records?" Vera asks out of the blue. Underneath the rectangular table, she crosses her legs twice. Once at the knee, the other time at the ankle.

Color Bridget surprised. Her eyes widen before she assumes that inquisitive, little mask. A palm cradles her cheek, her elbow on the tablecloth.

"No, Vera. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," she lies.

Her fingers slide up the stem of her glass.

_I wanted to hear Consolations. She recommended it to me._

“I see,” Bridget responds. She plays coy, her lips curled upright.

Saying nothing, saying everything.

Music reveals the story of yourself. Prince belts out another ballad on the radio. Doves cry. History is doomed to repeat itself. It's Bridget's penchant: easy listening to soothe your aching spirit.

The forensic psych swallows her wine, red sailing down her throat. Into the hatch, buried away with the hatchet that is Vera Bennett’s trust. Exemplifying patience, she tries not to cast her judgment. Despite the concern buried in her sapphire stare, she plays the role of confidant.

_This isn't good for you Vera._

Vera mimics the act, a parrot in the sense of finding herself. She deflates. Sinks a bit to the point where her chin rests on the table. In her heartbreak, she mopes. In her courage, she seeks for an open outlet.

"Does it make me a coward for wanting to leave, Bridget?"

They nurse their glasses of wine.

One friend listens to another.

Without the proper context, Bridget understands even though she wishes she didn’t.

"No, Vera. You're doing the right thing."

The blonde sounds adamant, properly convinced in order to soothe Vera’s conscience – the conflicted, twisted thing that it is requires a little guidance after all this time.

In response, Vera gulps down a few sips. The high dosage burns

"For the greater good, isn't it?"

How sad it is to admit that.

To become someone you love in the most tortuous way.

“Yes. For your sake.”

As her condolence, Bridget offers a strained smile.

Their glasses clinked together under the guise of a hollow toast.

Night breaks into morning. The day is spent in the prison. Drugs are smuggled back into the system. Women bicker; they argue and they fight. They turn on themselves. Vera, no matter how withered she feels, presses on. Presses on until her customary meeting with Joan.

This women’s no longer her devil.

She’s a necessity in the chaos that is her life.

Five-thirty rolls around. Vera breaks up the depressing monotony of her bleak routine.

She interrupts dinner for the patients.

This time, there's no succulent dish for Joan to prepare.

Prior to Vera’s arrival, patients operate in lieu of a conveyor belt, marching along in a line that they can't keep even. Some can, others can't. It's all relative.

The grey room looks as though it's coated in a film of ash with people equally grey, sobbing into their plates or playing with the pieces.  

Rotting fruit sits in a clear plastic bowl. The bananas begin to bruise. The apples fall further from the tree. They're out at all hours for those with salacious appetites.

As always, plastic cutlery serves as a safety mechanism. Orderlies maintain that it’s for their health: whatever that means. The food itself is bland - overcooked or undercooked depending on the time of day. Bowties hide underneath a congealed layer of red sauce.

The pasta is too hard, the slice of bread beginning to stale, and the carrots steamed until they collapse in on themselves. She finds her appetite diminished. The meal is an insult to her refined tastes. There's no choice cut of lamb with a glass of Shiraz to accompany the slab. 

Behold the modern rendition of The Last Supper.

In walks her Judas. The one that Joan cannot live without. At this point in time, emotions get the best of her. Her breath catches in her throat. With no hunger and only an illusory fever to combat, she pats at her lips with the napkin. Folds it in half and sets it on the table.

Here in Sinclair, Nurse Atwood stands amongst the orderlies. She cannot hide behind her foundation and her magazines. Instead, she folds her arms across her chest, pushing up her breasts in an enticing way that serves as a ruse. A ruse to match the front every single person puts on.

Vera stares at her.

Finally, the woman in white looks away.

The orderlies let her be here. They don’t bother dragging her away. She’s not a patient, not a danger to herself, or maybe she is. In any case, they don’t **fucking** _care_.

And that’s what cuts like a damn knife.

_How could they treat her like this?_

But who is they?

Vera has lost sight of it all.

She thinks to herself, her head pounding something fierce. Vera makes a beeline towards the center table, habited by one woman and one alone.

Today would mark the last visit.

"I wanted to love you, but you wouldn't let me."

Stated rather matter-of-factly, a stormy stare focuses on the self-proclaimed messiah. Her eyes have turned to glass; they feel as though needles have pricked the irises.

Through narrowed eyes, Joan looks at this rebuilt woman placed before her. Now, she wears the pants. Vera’s hips compliment jet black. Joan finds herself staring for far too long. It seems the Gorgon’s turned her heart, rather than her body, to stone.

“Why are you here?”

Incredulous, Joan raises her voice. An unholy silence fills the room.

**Translation:** _Fellow, for what purpose are you present?_

Suddenly, Vera strikes.

Vera's lips brush against Joan's right cheek. This is the embodiment of the Judas kiss: a tragedy built upon love and the undermining slap of betrayal during their time spent in Wentworth.. Rather than fact, Joan relies on symbols and acts. She stiffens. Turns her head the other way with a distant stare.

"Love and hate. They're one of the same."

In the admission, Joan feels tired.

There's a raw cutting pain here.

"We haven't been very honest with ourselves, Vera. We've betrayed each other's trust."

A hollow smile comes into place.

Kneeling beside Joan, Vera listens. Her eyes are shining bright, her hand placed upon the arm chair. From afar, the orderlies watch the scene enfold. Some patients stare with their wide, unblinking eyes. They play the part of actors upon the stage.

It’s not the audience that they care about.

It’s one another.

“You mentioned forgiveness,” Vera points out, pretending to be empowered. “Or have you forgotten?”

With a scoff, Joan narrows her eyes. Focuses on the tiled ground that’s riddled with cracks to match her ceiling.

"Don't romanticize this."

Joan’s voice digs deep. Acts as a blade cutting through Vera’s hardened façade. Her former deputy flinches from the reaction. She shouldn’t relish the response, but he does.

Dark brown eyes look her kneeled form up and down. Mary Magdalene isn’t here to wash her savior’s feet; she’s here for something else, pledged to fealty, sworn into loyalty.

Vera replies in earnest, "I haven't. This is the first time I can see clearly. Can you?"

It’s a painful parallel to "my conscience is fine. How's yours?"

The palm of Joan’s hand sings – _stings_ – reminiscent of the time she slapped her underling.

Times.

Perhaps it’s all subjective.

Vera intrudes on the concept of personal space. Their faces are but a few inches apart. From her knees, she rises, but doesn’t stand. Her thighs quiver.

Disregarding her meal, Joan regards the severity of the situation. Akin to the riot, she falters. Hesitates, if only for a moment. Channing isn’t here to scrutinize her decision. It’s the line of staff by the double doors, accompanied by the grey, grim patients scattered through the cafeteria.

“You should leave,” Joan says.

She attempts to dismiss the little mouse who stares and glare.

“You should leave,” Joan says and acts without hesitation this time around.

While seated, her hand falls to Vera’s cheek. Without eye contact being severed, they acknowledge one another as equals. This unsaid thing speaks in volumes.

Joan swipes her thumb pad along the underside of Vera’s jawline. Beneath her touch, it’s smooth porcelain.

"In another life, perhaps," she muses.

Without her father to serve as a moral compass, she falls victim to petty emotion. Tilting her head back, she kisses Vera full on the lips. She chews on her lips, eats away at the mouth. Their tongues touch. Maybe someone moans, maybe someone doesn’t.

Someone sighs.

Vera falls completely lax.

A homage to the way things used to be.

Melting, owned, subdued.

From the kiss, her knees begin to ache. She wants more. She’d be willing to lay herself across this table, in front of an audience, if it meant that Joan would have her fill.

The thought renders her wet beyond belief.

Can Joan sense it?

She thinks so – with the way she moves her tongue inside of her mouth. She's afraid to touch Joan. To touch someone who puts up thorns and walls to refrain from getting hurt again. Seeing it, feeling it, pains Vera. Still, she kisses her as though she were dying of thirst. They come together like teenagers: needy and angst-ridden.

And Joan struggles to control herself through the intense heat that fires her blood. She yearns to see this small woman bruise, bleed, cry: be it from her mercy, her curses, or her blessings. She'd rather the woman be shivering under her mouth, a mewling mess with spread legs and choking from the intensity of such a salacious touch.

Heat flares in her gut. Burning like the sun, she tries to cut off her imaginative switch.

Breathless, they break the kiss. Pupils dilated, they suffer from the withdrawal of a drug left unsaid.

Vera reciprocates the touch she neglected many months ago in the comfort of Joan’s home. Her thumb strokes that pale, freckled hand. She stands up. She sees her reflection in the depth of Joan’s stare.

There, she appears crooked.

“I’ll be seeing you soon,” Joan promises, the huskiness of her voice presenting an insatiable allure.'

“You will,” she insists in retaliation.

It’s not retaliation if one goes willingly.

She stands up. Steps away. Vera dares not look back.

Down the corridor, she mumbles this to herself.

"What am I going to do?" 

Come tomorrow, Vera peers out the window to her office, feeling just as trapped as the inmates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to do some parallels to 03x08 with this one...


	30. Survive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything comes to an end. Mystified, she listens to the dull thud of her heart. She feels like a goldfish. Trapped in a bowl, trapped in Joan's lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this may seem cruel, my intention all along was for this fic to serve as a segway into season four. This is probably the longest chapter by far. As I've mentioned, I may write a few oneshots that correlate with this universe! :) I'm sad to see this end, in all honesty... But end, it must!

> "And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so?
> 
> -I did."
> 
> _Late Fragment_ \- Raymond Carver

These concrete halls resemble the way a throat constricts when it swallows a bitter pill that gets stuck while sailing down. Anxiety hums nervously inside of Governor Vera Bennett. She tries to hide her weakness through the pretense of her uniform. Yet, her stride is as condemned as the inmates.

To her office, she retreats.

"Governor," Bridget acknowledges the woman in passing, using her title rather than her name in the public sphere. "Did you need to talk? You seem preoccupied."

Curiously, the blonde tilts her head. A wave of concern bunches up the lines above her brows.

"No," comes rushing out as an instinct. "I-" Vera hesitates. Swallows the lump in her throat. "Do you ever feel like quitting?"

Dr. Westfall smiles, patience incarnate.

"More than I care to admit. Quitting is a natural response, I assure you. The love you have for this job is too great to ignore. You're bound to the space, whether you like it or not."

_Love._

What a twisted, royally fucked thing.

There's no fairytale romance, only the harshest reality to rubberband her into this inconceivable situation.

A crowned mouse musters a smile that's a hollow display.

“I really must be off, Bridget.”

“I understand, but Vera?”

Vera hesitates, lost and alone in her confusion. She's in a dream-like haze that she'll never be able to snap out of.

“--Stay true to yourself.”

She smiles wider.

Nearly laughs as an automated response.

Into her office, she flees.

At Sinclair, Joan gathers her belongings. One by one, she stacks them. Places them in a cardboard box originally marked for fruit. Every item has a designated spot.

"Did you tell her?" Nurse Atwood sounds stern. She lingers in the doorway where an orderly uses her as a shield should the going get tough.

"No... I didn't wish to hurt her."

She wets her lips, her conscience's a tabula rasa. A blank slate for her promised freedom.

“Won't this hurt more?"

_I care about you, too._

She should have said it at the dinner, should have said it from the start, should say it in the prison, but none of it will come out. Her mouth's been sewn shut.

Silence is golden. She tucks the postcard and the letter into the paperback novel. To be trapped behind one glass and now another has never been the fate Joan Ferguson imagined for herself.

Akin to classified evidence, the mementos ought to be disposed of. Why she keeps them remains a mystery even to herself. The unlikelihood of keeping these relics becomes a reality once she is to enter Wentworth and the Governor (ha) is to conduct the precursory strip search.

First, Vera hears it on the radio.

Then, she sees it on the news.

Unable to connect the sound, she spies the motion picture.

The newscaster holds a microphone in his slimy hand. He's artificially handsome, a falsehood crafted by screenwriters in desperate need of a glowing review. He reads the lines that flash on the screen: "Joan Ferguson, former governor placed on remand, is on her way to Wentworth."

Vera turns off the radio, the monitor, the sound of her grievances. Mystified, she listens to the dull thud of her heart. She feels like a goldfish. Trapped in a bowl, trapped in Joan's lies.

Now, the phone call from Director Channing serves as the third strike.

“Tell me you're prepared, Bennett, for this monumental fuckshow that's about to go down.”

He's angry.

He's always angry.

Pissed beyond belief, she envisions his skin glowing red, the spittle flying from his lips. What a **disgusting** man.

"I wanted her remanded into state, not here. Anywhere but here. Her lawyer did this."

The Governor attempts to quell the beast on the other end. She's losing precious time, trying to satisfy someone who finds comfort in spread legs and cocaine rapture.

After taking the heat, Governor Bennett hangs up. Picks up the phone and tries, tries _again_. She specifically asks for Nurse Atwood in the ward.

"Why did you let her go?"

"The papers have been signed, Ma'am."

"What?"

"She's been given a clean bill of health."

_I'm sorry you found out._

Nurse Atwood never says it. It's a trait of women to hold in what rings true.

Vera's swimming in her head. She can hardly make out the words.

"You're kidding me."

There's nothing left to say to the orderly on the other side, chewing her wad of gum. Apathy remains her best dress. Abruptly, she hangs up.

If only for a moment, Vera allows herself to fall apart. Her elbows rest on the table. Her palms cradle her cheeks. Her steadfast fingers slither over her temple.

_Why didn't she tell me?_

Blunt nails scrape her brow line, sinking down, pushing into her eyes that flutter shut.

_I should have left this life behind._

"I should have became a counselor instead," Vera mumbles to herself. To the art hanging on her wall.

Having risen from the ashes, a phoenix experiences slight turbulence on the road back to Hell. Alone, Joan Ferguson sits on a frigid metal bench that absorbs her body heat. The shackles around her wrists hang heavy, but it's a temporary fix.

This commercialized van cruises down the road, picking up the pace before turning into Wentworth Correctional Facility. Joan sits inside, her wrists shackled, a prisoner to this represented institution.

Dark eyes survey the white interior of the vehicle: this empty womb that houses something, _someone_. Her mind clarifies the padded white cell, the fire, the doctor, the visits. The chains chitter-chatter when she raises her arms; from mild disuse, they ache. She orchestrates a forgotten melody, a Russian classic as a homage to her girlhood. The name remains a modern day enigma.

It shouldn't have ended this way, but it does regardless of the choices they've made.

“En garde.”

She speaks and her voice sounds voluminous, echoing, within this tinny cavern. The driver glances into the rearview mirror; he doesn't humor her, this isn't mean for him.

The restricted access of the media for the inmates has kept it all a lethal secret. Somehow, Governor Bennett manages to catch wind of the situation at hand.

Governor Bennett attempts to keep this recent installment on the down low. The radio on her hip hisses static. Her arms hang limply by her sides. With two guards on opposite sides, she walks down the hallway towards the back entrance. It feels like a burden, a secret, a _taboo_.

"Incoming prisoner" announces the radio.

Someone, in the midst of things, forgets to mention Sierra.

Her deputy turns his head to her and he resembles an old bloodhound: loyal, faithful, concerned about the fox in the chicken coop.

“Will you be alright, Governor?”

She commends Will Jackson's sincerity.

“I've been through worse, haven't I?”

Rhetoric prepares her for the worst. The Governor uses her badge to navigate through these iron bars. Higher heels in lesser days click, click, click over the concrete of the backlot.

When the van makes its approach, the garage door issues a mechanical groan. In the dead of night, they transport her as though she's precious cargo and to Vera, she is. Always will be.

By the gate, Governor Bennett resides. The headlights shut off. Two guards hop out. They resemble lemmings, blind and prepared for the cliffside.

Out staggers the woman of the hour, a pair of shackles hanging from her wrists. She stumbles and falters, as a shade rather than a human being. Joan Ferguson shakes back the black curtain of her hair, studying the edifice that threatened to crumble her once.

All the sinners and saints step into the light.

Through a single stare, Vera's sized up. She stands statuesque, swallowing shards of glass. Her tired eyes hide nothing at all. Behind a transparent veil, she exists.

Here stands the archetype of one's unraveling.

Caught in a landslide, the toxicity of the situation makes itself known.

_Did I want to care or to be cared for?_

It weighs on the mind. Hangs heavy on the heart.

Her ears burn scarlet. Her body's thrumming on the wingspan of a hummingbird. Too fast. There's a blind panic controlled by Vera's timed breathing, courtesy of the exercises during her therapy session. Once, it helped. Now, it fails.

Face to face, they exchange a steely stare. A look that screws cannot decode. Under the guise of a showdown, they stand opposite of one another. They're inseparable.

Here, Joan chooses her exit strategy.

"Hello, Vera."

The velvety timbre threatens to lure Vera in. Unrelenting, Vera allows for her jaw to lock into place. Her arms hide behind her foolish, fragile spine. Weakly, her fists caress her back.

Fragments of memory come flooding in: Joan in the white padded cell. Running her fingers through Joan's hair. The letters. The book. The music. The conversations. The discourse. The intimacy. The tragedy of it all.

_She played me._

Such passionate kisses linger on the bed of their tongues, fresh and renewed.

The cool knife of betrayal sinks in deep.

It's act one of the invisible plan.

_Now you will feel as I have felt._

Addiction strings you out in the crude wake of reality. Vera blinks. Turns her head the other way. As Governor, it's her duty to escort the prisoner. She designates this task neither to her deputy nor to her staff. The burden belongs to her and her alone.

“But, Governor--”

“Go on; I'll be fine.”

Joan watches the exchange with a curiosity befitting a child; there's a hidden intellect in the way she lifts her head, chin up, as though she's weighing the value of Vera's words. Her deeds, her actions.

To survive, the heart needs to harden. Is Vera prepared for the task? Joan suspects not, given the way her throat tightens. Her veins protrude. Her pupils dilate.

Trust exists at this tangled up thing between them. Wentworth looms over them: this suffocating presence that neither can escape.

In the heat and absolute chaos, Joan resembles a monument, tall and proud. Several feet away, Vera remains, as if this woman is a bloody cannibal, aiming for the jugular or the heart beneath frail, delicate ribs. Anger flares up and Vera contemplates screaming, brandishing her hatred rather than her love. She hasn't the heart for that.

A game of cat's cradle tangles until it's fucked beyond belief.

Instead, she escorts Ferguson into protection. By the end of this ordeal, the wrinkles will multiply; the stress will take on a new form. Joan watches her. Rather than the stare being introspective, it feels voyeuristic.

Silence befalls them.

The visits matter, but not their honorable mention.

Like the Hounds of Hell, the unresolved chase them.

“I look forward to seeing how you run this prison, Vera.”

Bemused, her lips twitch.

“I'm not the same as you, _Ferguson_ ; this isn't a replica of your iron reign.”

How strange it sounds – feels – to drop the intimacy of a first name. She sounds embittered and worn which breeds for a unique combination.

Truth be told, Vera would rather travel back in time to the visits and if not that, then, she craves nothing more than to squeeze Joan's wrist as a pledge in solidarity.

The height difference provides a stark contrast. Ferguson's shadow dances across brick walls. Vera's quivers, cowers, as a throwback to the timid thing she used to be.

Iron hangs heavy on her wrists. Nips away at flesh and the ache seeps into bone. Joan, at the moment, would have preferred to rest a hand upon Vera's shoulder in a truce. In a pledge to solidarity.

Repressed, neither act upon the flaws of their heart.

In this role reversal, time seems to slow on the lonely march down the hall. They walk down these cursed halls together, side by side, mimicking days old.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the feedback, reviews, and comments. Each and every one of you continue to amaze and inspire me on a daily basis. I like to think that this chapter will explain Vera's cruelty when she mentions visiting Joan in the ward during season four. ;) But in all honesty, thanks for giving this a read! It blows me away that many of you find meaning and beauty in this. I'm humbled, truly. You're all such a lovely bunch. Again, thank you! xx


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